


June 16 - 27, 1969

by RiskyBiznu



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Americana, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff without Plot, Historical Accuracy, Humor, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Road Trips, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:54:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 22,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25151206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiskyBiznu/pseuds/RiskyBiznu
Summary: Good old-fashioned loverboys Scout and Sniper have been sent on a wild-goose chase to get the upper hand with BLU. This time around, their focus is a briefcase in the rainy northwestern town of Sawmill.This isn't your average everyday Capture The Flag, though… because they're starting in Teufort!
Relationships: Scout/Sniper (Team Fortress 2)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 81





	1. June 16

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, and one more thing while I still have your attention: SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL, STATE, AND NATIONAL PARKS!! Nature ain’t gonna preserve itself!!

With a loud squeal of its tires, Sniper’s campervan peels out of RED’s base in Teufort, dry red-orange dust billowing up behind it like cumulus clouds and blanketing the shut door of the garage.

It’s already high noon, and the sky is absolutely cloudless, just as it’s been for the past month. Scout tries to find a way to sit in the passenger’s seat without having the sunlight beat down on him too badly; he fiddles noisily with the visor on his half of the windshield, flipping it from side to side and frowning.

Sniper is maneuvering the steering-wheel with one hand, and swigging cold black coffee from a promotional RED thermos with the other. “Before you say anythin’… Not my fault I lost track of time. Had a lot to get done this mornin’.”

Scout jams the sun visor into an odd and unstable angle, then gives Sniper a knowing smirk.

“Alright, I slept in. But only because Engie kept me up with van maintenance.”

Scout narrows his eyes, still quietly smiling.

“Okay, okay, I was up late readin’. But I was readin’  _ The Hobbit! _ It’s a bloody classic!”

Scout looks like he’s straining  _ very  _ hard to keep from laughing.

Sniper looks over at him, then turns back to the road with a huff and a defeated expression. “...I slept in ‘cause I was up late readin’ some of the comics you left in the van. There. Happy?”

With a cackle, Scout hits Sniper in the bicep. “I knew it! I  _ knew _ it!” He has a hearty laugh at Sniper’s expense, playfully wiping a nonexistent tear from his eye. “I thought the stack looked a little different from how I left ‘em.”

Sniper huffs, chuckling a small bit in spite of himself. “You’re just proud that  _ you  _ were the one on-time today… for once in your life.”

“Hey, c’mon! I’m  _ punctual! _ I’m up earlier than anyone!”

“Maybe so. But you also slack off more than anyone, until you’re runnin’ out the door barefoot with toast still in your mouth.”

“Yeah… but I’m never  _ late.  _ I still make it to the missions just fine!”

_ “‘Beyond all scientific explanation,’ _ as Doc puts it.”

Scout rolls his eyes and takes his cold can of Bonk from the cupholder, tearing off the pull-tab with a hiss of fizz. “What- _ ever. _ Someone’s just grumpy ‘cause they haven’t had their nine gallons of coffee yet.” He resumes that playful smiling squint, looking over at Sniper from the corner of his eye as he sips his drink. “How long’s the drive today, anyhow?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On how many weird li’l tourist traps you have me pull over for.”

“Aw, hey, is this about that time I got lost in a corn maze on the way to Harvest?”

“That wasn’t even a corn maze. It was just someone’s corn you jumped a fence into. And, no... I was  _ actually _ thinkin’ about that time we had to cut through Texas to get to Granary, when you went out of your way to buy a good pair of cowboy boots.” He laughs again and adjusts his shooting glasses. “Have you ever even worn those since you got ‘em?”

“ _ Au contraire. _ Feast your eyes.” Scout leans back, hikes up one leg of his bell-bottom jeans, and thumps his foot against the dashboard of Sniper’s van. Sure enough, he’s wearing them: brick-red cowboy boots with white embroidered accents, the best that an absurdly-high merc salary can buy. To his credit, they do look like he’s already worn them a few times before and broken them in well enough.

Sniper whistles. “Y’know our civilian disguises are supposed to be  _ subtle, _ right? I don’t think those boots with that shirt are doin’ you any favors in that department.”

“Jealous?” Scout holds out the hem of his team-colored tie-dyed tee, looking unmistakably proud of himself. “Made it myself last weekend. Got one for you, too, if ya wanna wear anything besides those lame button-ups of yours.” He points to Sniper’s plain-jane burgundy top, which is tucked in neatly, but with its sleeves rolled up to his elbows and at least four of the top buttons undone.

Sniper presses his lips shut and tries to pretend he’s not absolutely flattered to be given some custom tie-dye. “Just as long as we don’t wear ours at the same time.”

“Yeah, sure, sure.” Scout smoothes out the front of his shirt. “Stupid subtlety. If you ask me, all this freakin’ out over  _ actin’ natural—” _ he does a few sarcastic air-quotes— “and all that stuff just makes us look  _ more  _ suspicious.”

“Well, what’d you rather do?”

“I say we lean  _ waaaay  _ into the tacky tourist look. Hawaiian shirts, one pair of binoculars each, the whole nine yards.”

Sniper has a momentary flashback to when Scout somehow managed to scrounge up a pair of matching t-shirts for them at Charles Darling’s Triassic Preserve, which read  _ ‘I had a REX-ellent time at...’  _ above the park’s logo. “Hmm. I say ya lemme sleep on the idea first.”

“Oh, um, speakin’ of sleep, where’s our stop tonight?”

“Someplace out in Arizona, dunno.”

Scout perks up and gasps. “Where in Arizona?”

“Just said, I dunno.” Sniper reaches over and pats the glove compartment in front of Scout. “Look around in there; should be a map. Only drew the whole route on it yesterday, so I don’t quite have it memorized.”

Scout eagerly fishes out and unfurls a gargantuan road map of the United States; it’s big enough to crowd a little into Sniper’s personal bubble. Sure enough, among the highlighter and faded pencil of past routes, there’s a line in red ink that runs all the way from Teufort, New Mexico, to Sawmill, Washington. Along its path, towns are circled and annotated in a half-legible scrawl to mark nightly stops, along with ideal departure times for the following mornings. “Holy  _ crap, _ you planned all this out yourself?”

Sniper beams with pride, straightening his posture somewhat. “As a matter of fact, I did. I know the legs are a li’l uneven here and there, but hey, didn’t really have much prep time.”

Scout is giving half of his attention to the conversation, and the other half to the fine print of the map. “I don’t even remember why we’re goin’ all the way out to Sawmill in the first place. Intel, I guess?”

“Somethin’ along those lines.” Sniper pauses for a second to study a road sign; the closest town was still quite a ways away. “Honestly, I don’t really pay attention to the details most of the time I get these lousy ‘special missions’. Just where I need to go and what I need to do. Don’t much care for the  _ why  _ part of it.”

“I feel ya.” Scout nods sagely.

“All I remember is a file we got from Turbine last week said somethin’ about some BLU intel arrivin’ soon up in Sawmill, of all places. Some kinda, y’know, experimental blueprint.” He gestures vaguely, his disdain for the nitty-gritty looking plainly apparent. “But it’s only there for review, and then it’s gonna vanish again to some other base. So, bit of a time limit.”

“Times like these, I wish we could just take planes.”

“Y’know, for a business that hires mercenaries to kill and steal for profit… RED sure picks odd little details to demand ‘subtlety’ with. Transportation bein’ the  _ least _ egregious.”

“Hey, wait, hold that thought!” Scout puts up one finger in a shushing gesture. “Our first stop’s near Flagstaff!”

“And?”

“Aw, c’mon, man! It’ll be so close to the freakin’ Grand Canyon! We gotta go see that!”

“The Grand Canyon, eh?” Sniper scratches his fresh-shaved chin. “I’ve seen pictures of it. Doesn’t look too impressive to me.”

Scout folds the map back up into a messy accordion shape. “That’s what everyone says. But you gotta see it in person!”

“Have you been before?”

“Well… no. But I’ve always  _ wanted  _ to! My mom went once, and she said it’s amazin’!”

“Maybe we can give it a look tomorrow.”

_ “Pleeeease?” _

“Alright, alright, we  _ will  _ give it a look tomorrow. But we’ll have to get up early, so brace yourself.”

“You say that like you didn’t oversleep by two hours this morning.”

Sniper plucks the folded map from Scout’s hand and thwacks him with it.


	2. June 17

The two mercs spend the night somewhere near Flagstaff in a very bare-bones RV park. Sure enough, Scout is up bright and early at the crack of dawn, and he wastes no time in jostling Sniper awake, too. Since he’s opted for a rather understated maroon tee today, he manages to convince Sniper to wear the tie-dye gift that they’d discussed the day before. It turns out to have a garish red-orange-yellow swirl design with a subtle wavy crosshair, and Sniper honestly loves it to bits. 

Once Sniper drinks enough coffee to drive properly, he takes Scout down the road a ways to a nondescript barbecue place for breakfast. After that, it’s off to the Grand Canyon.

It’s a long, winding drive up to the National Park proper. Scout’s face is practically glued to the passenger-side window, already quite impressed, though not without a twinge of acrophobia once he has to pop his ears. Sniper has to admit that he’s got a fondness for the unusual sorts of rock formations you’d see in a desert, in addition to a cat-like affinity for high places with good views.

Pulling up to the entrance of the park, Scout happily pays the daily fee for the two of them, and although money has been a complete non-issue since joining RED, it’s still a pretty chivalrous thing to do. After hemming and hawing over a map of the park, they make a beeline for an especially dramatic viewpoint.

As they step out of the van, glossy ravens hop around not too far away, watching up at the duo with expectant looks in their beady little eyes despite the _very_ clear signs instructing visitors not to feed them. Sniper passes Scout a half-full bag of trail mix anyway with a wink and a nod.

With a trail of noisy ravens following close behind like a small, noisy parade, they step right up to the guard rail at the edge of the canyon.

To say it’s breathtaking would be an understatement. It’s as if the earth itself is yawning; deep scarlet slices of the canyon stretch out literally as far as the eye could see, fading to warm lavender before melting into a stark blue horizon. A billion years of history peek out in striped layers like so many coats of tawny paint.

Even though it’s summertime in the middle of Arizona, the air here is dry and the breeze is refreshingly cool. It’s the perfect weather to get a really nasty sunburn without even noticing until it’s too late.

Scout honestly gets lightheaded and has to grip the guard rail for a dizzying minute or so, trying to avoid getting sick— or worse, looking too far down at the winding river below them. He definitely prefers being on the ground-floor, he thinks, and not a gazillion stories up like this, staring out over what felt like three states at once. He bets that if he got out Sniper’s rifle, he could see Teufort in the scope.

The ravens caw and croak behind the duo, wondering what’s so great about the canyon that it’s taken the humans’ attention away from dropping more trail mix.

Steeling himself with a deep breath, Scout tries to force the queasy feeling from his mind. He turns to face Sniper, who’s much easier on the eyes than a several-hundred-foot drop. “I bet I know what you’re thinkin’ about.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“You’re wonderin’ how far away into that canyon you could get a headshot on somebody while you’re standin’ here.”

“…”

“Am I right or am I right?”

“You just read me like an open book.”

Scout holds his hand up for a high-five, which Sniper gives without hesitation.

“You’re better at readin’ people than you give yourself credit for.”

“Psh. I just pick up on habits, is all.”

“That’s more impressive than you think.”

“Yeah? Name one example, then, smart guy.”

“Hmm… how about that time you did that saran-wrap-across-the-doorway trick to Engie?”

“How is _that_ impressive? Everyone knows that one.”

“Well, you did it like five minutes before he walked into the room, ‘cause you said he always leaves his workshop for coffee at 3 P.M. on Sundays. _Plus,_ he still had his goggles on, and you must’ve known he would, ‘cause that mornin’ he said he’d be weldin’ all day… so of course he wouldn’t’ve seen the saran wrap.”

“…Jeez, I think you remember more details about that one prank than I do.”

“A talent can still be a talent even if you don’t think it’s worth the attention.”

“Too bad I can’t just make BLU walk into saran wrap. Gotta actually, y’know, use a gun.”

“I think flankin’ ‘em and dodgin’ their bullets is a brain thing just as much it is a body thing. Just runnin’ fast isn’t enough to make someone as slippery as you are.” He smiles his _I’m-about-to-make-Scout-freak-out_ smile. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you remind me a lot of Spy that way.”

Scout gives an indignant huff through his nose. “You compare me to him one more time, and I’m just gonna sling you right over this railin’ here.”

Looking away quickly, Sniper is trying his best to hide a laugh. “Sounds like somethin’ Spy would say.”

Scout tries to holler something angry at him, but he starts laughing instead, and shortly he gives up with a sigh and an affectionate shove to Sniper’s arm. 

* * *

It’s not long before they cruise past an unassuming highway sign announcing the Utah state line.

Scout cranes his head around to survey the area. “Whole lotta nothin’ around here.”

“You can say that again.”

“...Whole lotta nothin’ around here.”

Sniper makes a _tch_ noise through his grin and paws the air to his right in a halfhearted swat. “Always gotta be difficult _._ Besides…” He broadly gestures out to the scenery; they’re nearing the edge of the Painted Desert. “At least it still looks interestin’ out there.” And it does: the highway cuts through wavy hills and outcroppings adorned with worn-away earthen rainbows, though the colors are no longer quite as vivid as they were about an hour’s drive ago.

“It’s just _rocks,_ though.”

“Hey, the Grand Canyon was just rocks, too, by that logic.”

“But that was like a million miles wide, and _crazy_ deep.” He points to a remarkably colorful hill in the distance, sloping gracefully from its peak into the red sand, its layers carved into zig-zags by dry rivulets. “But _that…_ I could totally climb that.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah! What, you want me to prove it? I’ll do it.”

“No, you won’t, because we’re already pressed for time as is. Gotta make it almost all the way through this state before we call it a night.”

Scout squints at the face of Sniper’s watch. “But it’s barely even noon!”

“You keep tryin’ to argue timing with me like you’ve ever been the one drivin’ to a mission.”

“I drove that one time!”

“Drove us nearly off a bridge.”

“Still drove.”

“...Fair enough.”

Scout tauntingly sticks out his tongue. “You want me to drive so bad, gimme the wheel!”

Sniper eyes him up and down. “Not sure I trust ya.”

“Whaddaya mean? You trust me enough to do me in your van, but not enough to let me drive it?”

“Hey, this van’s worth a lot more than some cheap linens.”

“C’moooon. Just for a bit!”

There’s a tense pause.

Scout is giving his absolute best puppy-eyes.

Laughing through a sigh, Sniper slows the van to a stop in the hot sand just along the side of the road. “Alright, knock yourself out. Just… not literally.”

A maniacal cackle erupts from Scout as he zips around the van and springs into the driver’s seat. He’s already fiddling with the radio dial by the time Sniper is buckled in beside him.

“Take it slow, alright? Lotta nice big rocks around here to veer into.”

“I know what I’m doing!” Scout immediately floors it hard enough for Sniper to be smacked against his seat-back.

He mumbles something indistinct about Scout’s general jumpiness as he rubs the back of his head, slightly mussing his otherwise neatly styled hair.

“When’s lunch?”

“Hey, just take it one thing at a time. Drive to the nearest town first, and then we can try scavengin’ for food.”

“Just the next town? Right on.”

Another little silence settles over the van.

Scout is stretching his neck out, surveying the scene. “Ummm, where exactly _is_ the next town?” Around the highway, he realizes the once-bright rocks that have followed them from Arizona aren't just losing their hue— they've begun morphing into the crags of the Rockies, though they’re still speckled with the same dry shrubs. A few mountain peaks are already looming just past the horizon, all dyed a deep blue with the clouds just barely grazing past them.

“That’s for you to figure out.” Sniper is halfway tempted to just lean his chair back, tilt his hat over his face, and enjoy a nap. The sun is comfortably warm on his chest and forearms, and it’s been a while since he’s refueled on coffee.

Scout utters a sad little whine. “But I’m hungry _now,_ man.”

Sniper wordlessly offers an unassuming brown paper pouch from the glove compartment.

Scout eyes it nervously out of the corner of his eye. “Jerky? ...What kinda weird animal did you slice up this time?”

“Nothin’ weird, just rabbit.”

Still keeping his eye on the road, Scout holds out one empty palm. “Cool, I can dig it. Gimme some.”

After rustling around for the perfect one, Sniper hands over a piece of jerky, but a flash of earth-tone color catches his eye. “Hey, that’s new. When’d ya make that?”

Scout glances over and sees Sniper pointing at something on his wrist: a bracelet made of suede cord braided through the roots of several coyote teeth. “Oh. Heh. Last week, actually, but only just now remembered to wear it.” He pops the jerky in the side of his mouth like a cigar, then returns his hand to Sniper. “Go ahead, drink in the craftsmanship.”

Gently, Sniper turns Scout’s hand over back-and-forth a few times, admiring the way the cleanly polished teeth gleam yellow-beige in the bright sun. “I see you used one of the knots I taught ya.”

Scout’s smug grin spreads into a bashfully dorky one. “You bet! I, uh, had to practice a lot to remember how to actually do it, though… but I got it!” He rattles the bracelet for emphasis before yanking another bite from the jerky.

“Good work… And I mean it. Doesn’t seem exactly _your_ style though.” There’s a question hinted by his curious tone.

“I got the coyote teeth at some secondhand place a couple towns over from Teufort. Had a lot of, um… Y’know, that thing where you make a dead animal into stuff…?”

“Taxidermy?”

“Yeah, yeah! Like they had a little stuffed raccoon eating some Cracker Jacks and everythin’. Anyway, these teeth? Five for a dollar, and they already had the li’l hole through ‘em. Not bad.”

“No, not bad at all, but why _teeth?”_ Sniper gives a hoarse little chuckle. “Seems like somethin’ I’d get, not you.”

Scout rolls his eyes away from Sniper and smiles with a blush, chewing his jerky to buy himself a little time. “Naw, that’s exactly it. People makin’ things out of dead things _always_ reminds me of you. So it’s like a li’l memento, I guess…”

Sniper is visibly— though pleasantly— surprised by the sincerity.

“Or maybe your godawful taste in fashion is finally wearin’ off on me.”

“Ha! Aw, c’mere.” Sniper leans over for a brief little peck, so as not to distract too much from Scout’s driving, and looks unusually thoughtful as he pulls away. “Hm. I think I put too much onion on that rabbit.”

Scout wastes no time in snatching up the jerky pouch. “More for me!”

The enthusiasm elicits a delighted smirk from Sniper. “Glad you like it.” He points ahead at an approaching sign beside the road, which stands out obnoxiously kelly-green against the dull rocky terrain. “Because the next town is almost another hour away.”

Scout thumps his forehead against the steering-wheel.


	3. June 18

About two hours shy of the Utah-Idaho border, Scout wakes up to the unmistakable sound of a plump quail hooting its little head off right next to the van at the crack of dawn. 

Sniper, in turn, wakes up to Scout shaking his shoulders and demanding that he look out the window and check out the freakin’  _ size _ of this big fat quail.

“Wow. That  _ is  _ a fat quail.”

“I know, right? ...I love him already.”

“No pets in the van. ‘Cept you, rabbit.”

Scout claps his hand over his own mouth and blushes, suddenly hyper-aware of his buck teeth. Sniper just snickers and tosses him a leafy carrot out of the cooler, and though he wants to act tough, he’s honestly too hungry to decline the snack.

As he gnaws on it, he definitely catches Sniper looking at him with such unusual affection that there may as well be a little pink heart circling over his head. Scout flexes, grinning, and Sniper just clears his throat and turns around to start his coffee.

After a lackluster breakfast of fruit and lunchmeat, the final stretch of Utah is relatively uneventful, with the last of the Rockies fading out behind them as the lush hills of Idaho begin rolling in.

By the time they’ve breached Idaho proper, the sky is threatened by a vast swath of gunmetal storm clouds on the horizon, and the grass is such a luxuriously healthy green that Scout and Sniper can smell petrichor just looking at it. The modest little farmhouses amid the crops and livestock all look like such charming places to live. Sniper feels a pang of nostalgia and can't help his wistful sigh.

The road is snaking through wide valleys, and the way it’s nestled between the rolling hills almost seems cozy, to the point where Scout is nearly dozing off in the passenger seat as he tries to thumb through a comic book with a muscular costumed bullfrog on its cover. The main thing keeping him awake is the fact that his breakfast was not just unsatisfying, but also a few hours ago at this point, and from his slouched vantage point he's been scanning the roadside for eatery advertisements.

Eventually, about halfway through a can of Atomic Punch and three-fourths of the way through his comic, he corrects his sleepy posture well enough to point out a rather lackluster billboard for an upcoming diner. “Hey! Let’s go there!”

“That one on the sign?” Sniper looks halfway curious, as the diner’s advertisement features a loaded baked potato more prominently than its own logo. “What do they have?”

“I don’t care  _ what  _ they have, I wanna eat it. I’m too hungry to care at this point.”

“Heh. I swear, even when I was roughin’ it in the bush and livin’ off whatever I could find and catch, I wasn’t complainin’ about hunger  _ half _ as much as you do every day.”

“Yeah, well, I was probably dirt poor and goin’ hungry at around the same time, so either you get me some grub or you let me whine about  _ not  _ gettin’ some grub.” Scout drops his comic book like it’s a mic.

Sniper nods; his copilot has a salient enough point to warrant an early lunch break. He pulls over without any further protests.

After much deliberation, they both order steaks, albeit different cuts. Sniper insists he wants his steak rare enough that it’s still twitching, and the well-groomed waitress giggles with the blissful innocence of someone who’s never seen Sniper eat something which really  _ is _ still twitching. That was a rough day at Upward, Scout reminisces as he stares into his ice-water. He swears he’ll never look at scorpions the same way again.

When they’re on the road again, the good food and warm sun gets the better of Sniper, and by the time another half-hour has passed since lunch, he’s reclined the back of the passenger seat for a nice nap, his dusty boots crossed and propped up on the dashboard.

At this point in their relationship, or whatever they want to call it, Scout is intimately familiar with Sniper’s sleeping habits. Thus, he knows he can crank up the radio to a pretty significant volume before Sniper so much as twitches mid-dream. He twirls the dial around for a good minute and a half before finally settling on something by Sam & Dave.

_ ‘Woah, you know your powerful lovin’ is… soo-oothing to me…’ _

Seeing as the highway is smoothly wavy and almost completely unoccupied, Scout lets himself glance over at Sniper for a few moments at a time, totally passed out, with his beat-up hat tipped over his face and the bottom of his shirt riding up enough to show a hint of soft tummy. For an assassin, the guy looks pretty harmless when he's snoozing. Scout guesses he's either dreaming about strangling a twenty-foot crocodile to death with his bare hands, or carefully feeding ham scraps to one that just hatched. Nothing in between.

He idly fishes around for that half-empty packet of jerky from earlier— he likes snacking when he can’t be running his mouth— before turning his focus back to the road.

Scout can’t help wondering: What the hell  _ are  _ they? Well, to be fair, he knows what they are, but he’s not sure if he can find a good word for it.

They sure as hell aren’t ‘friends,’ he knows that much. Well, they’re certainly  _ friendly, _ but he has a hunch that the way Sniper drops everything to jump his Bostonian bones the second he wanders into the van with some fancy booze after-hours is probably a few degrees past the limits of ‘friendly’. 

Boyfriends? He hasn’t been particularly fond of that term for years; it just sounds like such a brainless teenager word, something a classmate in a poodle skirt would whisper to her clique back in high school.

Dating? That makes it sound like they’re still in the trial stage, going on dates as a test-run because they’re not totally sure if it’ll work out, and Scout feels that they’re pretty damned sure at this point— as sure as you can be without marriage being an option, anyway.

Partners? Describing the two of them as ‘partners’ just reminds Scout of two totally different connotations: two businessmen running some kind of law office, or two Jesse James types pulling a co-op train robbery.

But, as much as he totally freaks out at the thought of admitting it to literally any other person on the planet besides Sniper, he does love him, and he knows ‘love’ is a good word for it, however mushy it may sound. Still, he feels like ‘love’ is such a tired word, repeated to death and then relentlessly spawncamped. He’s absolutely got the hots for the guy, just like the lovebirds in his ma’s dog-eared romance novels, but it goes way deeper than whatever dizzying butterflies he’d already felt for a few dozen folks before. Frustrated, Scout begrudgingly admits to himself that he doesn’t have the introspection nor the book-smarts necessary to put it all into words.

Shortly after the last few notes of  _ Soothe Me _ fade out peacefully and right before the next song starts, the van hits a sudden pothole in the road with a  _ kachunk  _ that jolts Scout out of his trance, and he realizes he’s been over-chewing his one bite of jerky like cow cud and squeezing the wheel with an iron grip and terrible posture. He really needs to stop being such a space cadet sometimes, he tells himself… but dammit if Sniper isn’t just the nicest thing in the world to think about. He steals another glance at him again.

“Hey. Hey, doll.”

No response. Sniper hasn’t moved an inch since he’d gotten comfy right after lunch.

_ “Sniiiiipe. _ Slim. Beanpole. Twiggy!”

As far as he can tell, Sniper is still out cold. Scout idly wonders how those long, deep breaths can fit in such a lanky ribcage.

“Hey, heads up, Sleepin’ Beauty!” He lifts the hat from Sniper’s face and then drops it back down on him from about three feet up.

Sniper splutters awake, knocking the hat aside and propping himself up on his elbows. “What, what’s the problem?”

“Yo, what are we?”

Sniper is blinking hard and squinting in the afternoon sun. “...Shouldn’t we be gettin’ close to Salt Lake City by now?” He yawns, but doesn’t make any effort to bring the seat back upright again.

“What? No, not  _ where  _ are we. I said,  _ what  _ are we? Like, you and me. This thing we got goin’ on— what’s a good word for it?”

Sniper lays back down, staring up at the ceiling before looking back over at Scout. “Why, you thinkin’ of callin’ your mum about us?”

“I’m just wonderin’, I guess.”

Sniper doesn’t respond; he just pulls a face— his  _ thinkin’ face, _ as Scout calls it-- and stares quietly at the little bobblehead figurine on the dashboard. He fights the urge to reach out and give it a good flick to the nose.

He always has the same pattern whenever he takes a moment to think like this; you’d think he was giving Scout the silent treatment by the look of it, but it’s more like just putting the guy on hold while he sorts through the files in his mind. Scout hates it, but then again, he hates sitting still and waiting for just about anything. He’d tell the bullets of his pistol to hurry up if he knew they’d listen.

But the result is always worth it, so he taps his hands against the steering-wheel at a hundred miles an hour and just waits. Sniper’s going to come up with the perfect answer, he thinks, even if it does take a million years. The guy oughta write a novel, honestly. Maybe even some poems. They’d be real nice, just like—

Sniper grunts as he pulls himself and his seat-back upright, interrupting whatever elevator muzak was running through Scout’s mind, brushing out the wrinkles in the front of his button-up as the passenger-chair clicks into its proper place.

Their eyes meet. Scout looks  _ very _ eager.

But Sniper just shrugs. “I don’t think we  _ need _ a word for it.”

Scout is visibly taken aback at that, jolting up and slightly backward like he thinks he might’ve just heard a gunshot somewhere. “...You think so?”

“I mean, you know what we’ve got. I know what we’ve got. Isn’t that all ya need?”

“Well, yeah… I guess so. But I just wanna have something I can call you, or us. I like havin’ labels for stuff, y’know.” He shakes his head a little with a self-conscious smile. “Labels keep me from overthinkin’.”

Sniper thinks about that for a moment, too, but not for long, and soon he reaches over to Scout’s lap and picks up the neglected packet of jerky. “See this?” He wags it for a second, and the wax paper rustles loudly. “Labelin’ this wouldn’t change what’s in it. Don’t need to write ‘rabbit’ on this to know it’s rabbit… Don’t need to go around sayin’ you’re in love to know you’re in love.” He shakes out a strip and tears into it, then shrugs. “Same thing.”

Scout looks over at him— slouching, half-awake, and gnawing on a bunny that he might’ve shot over a whole week ago— and he can only sigh contentedly, instead of wondering why the hell Sniper just compared their love life to some chunks of sun-dried muscle with too much onion.

“What’s that sigh for?”

“Aw, nothin’. Just wonderin’ how I’m such a lucky guy, is all.”

Sniper gets the dumbest, most lovestruck smile, then perks up all of a sudden. “Oh! That reminds me. This rabbit here, I made somethin’ else from it. Thought it was right up your alley.” He pulls out a disorganized storage tray from underneath the passenger seat, and roots around in the clutter for a second before pulling out a narrow cardboard box that once held rifle ammunition.

Before he can open it, Scout snatches it from his grasp. “Hehey, thanks!”

“You haven’t even seen it yet.”

Scout pops open the lid on one end with his thumb, and flips the box over.

A tawny jackrabbit foot, perfectly preserved and fluffy, with a bit of small chain at the capped base for keyring purposes, drops into his unsuspecting lap. It must've been a huge damn jackrabbit, too, because the foot is long enough to fill Scout's hand and then some.

Scout squeals with a mix of terror and unbridled delight.  _ “Far out!  _ Here, here, do me a favor real quick, and put it on the mirror!” He tosses the foot back to Sniper like a hot-potato and taps hurriedly on the van’s rearview mirror.

Sniper happily obliges, clasping the chain around the mirror’s stem easily. “You really like it?” He sounds almost hesitant.

“Dude, it’s  _ righteous! _ Once we set up camp tonight, I’m gonna clip it to my bag for sure.” He bats at it like a cat playing with a toy on a string. “Gonna put all that rabbit luck to  _ real _ good use out in the field!”

“Heh. Rabbit luck.” Sniper drinks the last of the coffee in his thermos, and gives a laugh that’s mostly just a sharp exhale against the lid. “We both need some of that when you’re the one behind the wheel.”

“Aw, everyone’s a critic.” Scout waves his hand dismissively. “Must be  _ real  _ fun gettin’ to kick back and relax while you hassle me about how I  _ sometimes  _ go way the hell over the speed limit.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll let you work your magic in peace.” Sniper smirks. “Have fun drivin’, mate.” He then lays his chair back down, placing his hat over his face and his boots on the dash once again.

“Have fun try’na nap, pally.” Scout cranks up the radio volume, grinning smugly, right on time for a shrill  _ Yeeoww!  _ from James Brown to pierce the air between them.

Sniper flips his boyfriend the bird, and they crack up louder than the radio.


	4. June 19

Come the next morning, it’s only a stone’s throw from their campsite to the Snake River Canyon, the site of what’s said to be a very lovely waterfall, but it’s in the opposite direction of where they’re otherwise headed. Scout is driving, and while he hopes the canyon’s name isn’t literal, he’s wearing his cowboy-boots today just to be safe. He’s also decreed the slight bit of backtracking as “totally fine” on the basis that, if they do end up way behind schedule, he’ll just speed the rest of the way.

He and Sniper are both looking around, brows furrowed, at the trees surrounding the van as they cruise closer to the waterfall. There’s just too much greenery on either side of the road, in addition to rocky outcroppings blocking everything in, to get a decent view of what’s around them. Scout frowns. “I hope we don’t gotta park the freakin’ van and _walk_ through all this. I don’t wanna get bit by a snake or nothin’.”

“Wuss.”

“Whoah, hey, we can’t all be Saxton Hale over here.”

Sniper points at him accusingly, but with a grin and a laugh. “Don’t you compare me to that bogan. Mr. Hale _wishes_ he could be half the man I am.”

Scout glances over and whistles. “I think weight-wise, _you’re_ half the man _he_ is, ‘cause his arms are bigger around than your chest, pally. Saw the guy punch clean through a yeti once.” He imitates the punch in slow-motion with sound effects.

“Yeti punches don’t mean anythin’. When’s the last time you saw him doin’ somethin’ _intellectual?”_

“Well, hey, when was the last time _you_ did somethin’ intellectual?”

“I did _somethin’_ last night, but I wouldn’t call him an intellectual…”

“Gimme that damn road map so I can smack you with it.”

Sniper does a _snrk_ noise through his smile and faces Scout for a cheesy remark, but he stops before he can say anything and his jaw goes slack.

“What, do I got a little schmutz on me?” Scout rubs at the corner of his mouth with one hand, trying to check himself out in the rearview mirror.

Sniper just points past him. “Look at _that!”_

Scout turns, then gasps.

Now that the little dirt road has finally broken free of the trees and low cliffs, Snake River is stretching out before them, gliding through the sharp angles of the canyon and glittering in the morning sunlight. A few tiny buildings are perched on the slopes near the shore, but they look like mere dollhouses next to the river and seem as though they could get swept up by the waters at any moment.

As for the falls themselves— Shoshone Falls— they sweep in a wide arc across the canyon and cascade down the jagged rocks in a colossal plunge, crashing into the pool far below and kicking up billowing plumes of mist. This haze drifts up and catches the sun, sparkling delicately and carrying with it a rainbow so crystal clear that it feels painted-on.

Scout jerks the wheel to the side and puts the van in park as soon as it’s off the road.

“There’s a viewin’ platform over there, on the bank of the river.” Sniper makes some vague gesture towards it, even though Scout’s already hopped out of the van and scampered out of sight.

“Yeah, but there’s people on it already. I don’t need a bunch of wimps blockin’ my view here.” He clambers up the ladder running up the backside of the van. “Plus, I know how much you hate standin’ around next to pretty much any other human bein’ besides me.”

Scout wobbles at his perch as Sniper climbs up after him. “Sometimes I think you know me a little too well.” With his legs dangling off the van, he gets comfortable next to Scout, who leans against his side in turn.

The churn of the waterfall is a roar of white-noise, even from this distance, but luckily Scout’s never had any issues with talking too quietly. “Doesn’t take a genius to notice you ain’t real big on bein’ social.” He raps his nails arrhythmically against the metal van roof. “Which I don’t get. You’re smooth! Smoother than… um, somethin’ that’s really smooth. Like smooth peanut-butter! …Well, when you actually _bother_ to talk to people, anyhow.”

“And that’s not a coincidence.”

“Huh?”

“I learned how to be smooth so it’d be easier to say I wanna be left the hell alone.”

“Really? I thought it came naturally… Does that even work?”

“Works nine times outta ten. Most people take silence as a challenge, y’know? Think they gotta crack you like an egg, open you up. But if you talk _just_ enough, and you’re _just_ careful enough about how you say you don’t wanna talk more, they’re satisfied with the answer and go bother someone else. It’s a balancin’ act, and it’s sad I have to do it in the first place, but it does pay off.”

“So...” Scout juts out his lower lip in thought. “You _scare_ more flies with honey than with vinegar?”

Sniper laughs, a rough little sound under his breath. “Well, you scare ‘em off the _best_ with a big knife and a lot of angry screamin’, but that’s _frowned upon_ in most societies. So, sweet-talk it is.” He scoops up one of Scout’s hands with his own.

“Still don’t get why you avoid people so much in the first place. Schmoozin’ has its perks, man, like free drinks or hotel-room upgrades, if you play your cards right.”

“You ever play ‘em right?”

“Well… _sometimes._ But we’re not talkin’ about that; we’re talkin’ about you hidin’ away from everyone all the time!”

“Ah, right, right.” Sniper gives Scout’s hand a few squeezes as he considers the inquiry. “Not sure I have an answer for that, really.”

“Is it ‘cause you spent all that time just doin’ your own thing way out in the wilderness, ‘stead of livin’ with other people?”

 _“Correlation_ isn’t _causation.”_

“Hey, seems like as good a cause as any. Don’t like bein’ with people ‘cause you’d rather just strip naked and splash around with a buncha platypuses.”

“Vice versa. Didn’t like people to begin with, so I just went out to where I wouldn’t have to deal with ‘em.”

“Oh, duh.” Scout bumps his palm against his forehead. “Never thought about it like that.”

“I wonder if the rest of the team has it backwards like that, too. But at least you care enough to ask in the first place…” Sniper gives his date a light nudge. “Didn’t your parents ever tell you it’s not polite to be so nosy?”

“I think Ma gave up on that after the third or fourth kid.”

“And your dad was alright with that?”

“Well, the rest of ‘em weren’t his kids. And even if they _were…_ Not like he was around in the first place.”

“Ah. Hm. Did you… er, did he ever visit?”

“Not by the time I was old enough to remember anything about him. Ma gave me his number once, said he’d changed it a few times but she’d found him again. Let me call him once just to see what would happen.”

“I think I know where this is goin’.”

“You probably do. He picked up, asked who it was… Told him, hey, it’s me, remember me? I was jazzed! But he was all like—” here Scout puts on a comically deep voice with the slightest French accent— _“Jeremy, you’re dumb as a mule and twice as ugly!_ Then he hung up.” Scout shifts to pull his legs up onto the van and lay back across Sniper’s lap. He’s always had trouble getting comfortable against Sniper’s awkward, bony legs… No cushion whatsoever. “Lousy traumatic childhood. If I ever find that guy, I’m gonna…” He punches his palm. “I don’t know _what_ I’m gonna do, but it ain’t gonna be pretty.”

“Think you’ll recognize ‘im when you see ‘im?”

“Trust me. A rat like that is gonna give off sleazeball vibes a mile away. Plus, y’know, he oughta look a little like me, so that’ll narrow it down a little further.”

“And he’s gotta be a complete dipstick, seein’ as he doesn’t appreciate you.”

“You’re tellin’ me! And he’s _obviously_ a total wuss, if he can’t come outta the woodwork _once_ to say hi or nothin’.”

“Not even to ask for money, eh? Seems like somethin’ his type would do.”

“Ma always said he’s loaded, ‘cause she got checks in the mail from him here and there. Fat lotta good that did… I still ended up desperate enough to take this job.”

Sniper sucks in a breath through his teeth. “So he’s _that_ type, eh?”

“The rich asshole type!”

“I hate the rich asshole type.”

“No kiddin’! Can't think of a better example than Spy, and I’ve seen how you’re always terrorizin’ him. It's the best.”

“…Did you know you can order bags of two thousand ladybugs by mail?”

“What does that have to… Oh, you _didn’t!_ No freakin’ way did you—!”

“I did! It was durin’ the day when you were out on some errand with Heavy and Demo… Spy went down to the break-room for just _one_ minute. I ran up to his room, tossed the open bags in, and slammed the door shut.”

“I wish I coulda seen that!”

“Heard the scream all the way from my camper.”

“I bet his revenge must’a sucked big-time, though.”

“Y’know, it was the strangest thing. For about a week straight after that, medkits would just vanish whenever I got close to ‘em. A real mystery that was.”

“Aww, but you’re my tough-guy.” Looking up at him adoringly, Scout pats Sniper’s cheek. “Like anything Spy can do would ever slow you down.” 

“No… but, evidently, a nice waterfall sure can.” He pulls back the cuff of his Western shirt and checks the time. “C’mon, I hate to admit it, but we really don’t have all day.”

Reluctantly, and with an exaggerated sigh, Scout pulls himself back up into a sitting position. “Says who?”

“Says the Administrator, and she’s definitely gonna have us _beheaded_ if we come back to the base empty-handed.”

“Oooh, real scary. Man, we could take her if we tried, I bet.”

“Honestly, with you, I bet I could take on the world.”

“I’d settle for just hasslin’ Spy.” Giggling, Scout slides down off the side of the van, landing in the grass with a soft thump. “We should team up and do somethin’ _fun_ for him when we get back.” He returns to the driver’s seat and enjoys a quick sip from his nearly-flat can of Bonk.

As Sniper climbs into shotgun, he holds up his thermos of coffee, which has long since gone cold in the misty morning air. “To professionalism.”

“I can tell you’re bein’ sarcastic with me.” As he lifts his soda, Scout smirks. “But, what the hell. To professionalism! And all the stupid stuff we get up to, as _professionals!”_

_Clink._


	5. June 20

A little ways out from the first of their two Oregon campsites, the hilly countryside is dotted with well-fed cattle that look like mere poppy seeds on the sweeping green-gold meadows. The smooth ups and downs of the landscape seems to stretch on forever.

The rain in Idaho that had come and gone so inconsequentially is now a full-fledged thunderstorm that rolled into their part of Oregon overnight; waking up to the crack of thunder and the deafening rattle of hard rain is perhaps the most fitting welcome to the Pacific Northwest.

It’s late in the morning by now; the waterfall detour from the day prior had put them off-schedule by at least an hour, but they still had to wake up and get a move on as early as possible, well-rested or not. BLU is waiting, and so is the intel.

Scout, in a rare moment of self-awareness, admits that he isn’t exactly the best driver when it’s this rainy, so even though they haven’t been driving for too long, he proposes they pull over at— where else would he suggest?— a nice place to eat. His copilot is about to offer to take the wheel, but before he can, his rumbling stomach speaks for him, as the time crunch and the threat of flash flooding meant they’d both skipped breakfast to get on the road faster.

So, lunch it is. They duck into the place with the nicest and least-flickering neon signage to wait out the nasty weather.

* * *

Sniper is idly rapping his fingers against the tabletop, enjoying the last of his raspberry lemonade before they have to dip into the BLU base at long last. It’s weighing heavily on his mind, and quite visibly at that. After such an enjoyable journey here, and with such a long drive back to Teufort, the last thing he wants is for the atmosphere between him and Scout to be so deeply soured by a botched mission— or worse, a serious injury. Part of him almost wishes that the two of them could just gather up all their earnings from RED, retire early, and start a quaint little life together in a secluded cottage somewhere. Most of the rest of him knows they’d be “disposed of” by the Administrator if they tried, and that last sliver is just too damn fond of being paid to kill people.

The fact that he gets to number Scout among his coworkers is probably his favorite part of the job, though. He can suffer through just about anything— backstabs, crockets, a flickering neon sign upside the head while he's waist-deep in that murky Teufort water, you name it— if Scout’ll be there to boost his mood once his shift is over.

He watches the rainwater slide down the window overlooking the half-empty parking lot. He leans a bit closer to the glass, though, when he notices a cobalt eighteen-wheeler labeled ‘BINSKI LOGGING’ along the side of its trailer. He’s not sure how much of a coincidence it is to see that specific subsidiary out here, and he’s  _ just _ about to mention it to Scout when—

_ “Pssst. Hey.” _

Sniper freezes at the sudden whisper. He turns to look at Scout while keeping as still as possible; he knows a tense Scout when he hears one.

Scout looks like he’s seen a ghost, and his hand is almost white-knuckled, clenched in a fist around his fork. “Act natural.”

Sniper gives a nod and tries to will himself to relax, still listening attentively.

Scout’s voice is barely audible above the chattering patrons and clinking silverware around them. “Go outside… start up the van. Do it real calm ‘n’ easy and keep the door wide open for me. Get ready to burn rubber the second I’m in there. And whatever you do…  _ don’t _ look at any of the other booths. Go.”

Sniper nods again, then gives a very convincing yawn and rises from his seat. “Best food I’ve had in some time. Be sure and give ‘em a good tip, will ya?” He brushes a few crumbs from his shirt and coolly struts outside. Scout can hear the trusty old engine roar to life.

He sets out a careful amount of cash on the counter with the bill (enough of a tip to be generous, but not enough to look like they’ve got that insane RED salary) and plucks the last fry from his plate. His hands shake like he’s come down with the flu. Along the path from himself to the door is an unattended booth; its two uniformed customers had both adjourned themselves to the facilities just as Sniper was leaving, and their meal is only half-eaten. Below their table, however, flush with the edge of the booth seat to where he’d  _ almost  _ missed it… 

_ is a vivid blue briefcase! _

Scout would know BLU intel anywhere: the gaudy teal, the documents playing peek-a-boo, and the ever-so-subtle ‘TOP SECRET’ stamped boldly across the lid like a cattle brand. These damn things stand out so clearly that you might as well see 'em glowing right through the walls. Still, that means  _ he’ll  _ stick out like a sore thumb when he’s ferrying it out, and he can only hope he doesn’t leave a literal paper trail while he’s at it. He’d almost prefer having to bust into the BLU base proper; at least then he’d have his scattergun loaded and ready for when the enemy catches him blue-handed. As it stands, he’s got nothing but his wits and a dinner fork. He huffs.

Like he’s practiced it a thousand times (because he technically has), Scout gets up, grabs the briefcase, and walks out the front door.

Thank sweet merciful Hermes that Sniper parked the van so close to the entrance! Scout throws himself into his seat, and Sniper is already out of the parking lot by the time Scout is sitting upright and buckled in. Sniper can’t tell if that’s rain or sweat trickling down Scout’s brow, given the way he’s hyperventilating and bouncing.

He’s so concerned for Scout’s wellbeing, in fact, that it takes him a good couple moments to notice the massive rectangular eyesore resting on Scout’s lap. He chokes and almost swerves into another lane the second he lays eyes on it.  _ “Crikey, _ Scout, is that—?!” His eyes dart between the intel and the road.

Scout releases a deliriously giggly breath that he didn’t know he was holding. “I can’t believe it! Jesus H. tap-dancin’  _ Christ, _ I can’t believe that  _ worked!” _

“And after all that plannin’ and worryin’... I can’t, either.” Sniper’s arms feel like jelly, and he’d pull over to relax if he wasn’t terrified of whatever weapons might be coming after them soon in that ‘Binski Logging’ trailer. “Now, are you  _ sure  _ that’s the stuff we’re after? Was it really just sittin’ around unattended?”

Scout breathes deep to calm his jumpy nerves. “Gimme a sec. Let’s see what we’ve got.” When he tries the lock combination that worked on the last case of intel (1-3-3-7), the lid pops open easily with a few satisfying beeps and a flash of the numpad’s green light. He sifts through the loose papers and unlabeled folders, and crinkles his nose; it smells like the same harsh lemon-scented cleaner that all the BLU bases seem to be using a little too generously. At least he can tell it’s official.

“Well? What’s in it?”

“I said gimme a sec, pal! I’m not good with this st— oh,  _ hell _ yeah. Bingo!” Scout holds up a thick manila envelope, shut carefully with a tightly-coiled cord and stamped ‘ _ CONFIDENTIAL BLUEPRINTS’  _ in navy ink. No subtlety with these knuckleheads. Taped to the other side of the packet is a turquoise notecard:  _ ‘To be approved at S.M. H.Q. by 6/21.’ _ Scout reads the note aloud, then squints. “I guess by S.M., they mean Sawmill…? This’s gotta be the one, right?”

“I hope so.” Sniper sighs, simultaneously relieved and worried sick. He’s glad they won’t be doing any actual infiltration, but on the other hand, he knows a homely little campervan like his isn’t really the best choice for a daring high-speed chase. He squeezes the steering-wheel and hopes he won’t have to make use of the various weapons stashed within arm’s reach.

Scout is peeking into the packet, careful not to fold or crumple anything. “This looks pretty serious-business to me. Blueprints, several kinds of nice handwritin’, a lotta those big fancy Engineer-type words. And it looks like they used the  _ good  _ typewriters for this.”

“Sounds about right. And that note said June 21st, yeah?”

“Mhm. W-wait, that’s tomorrow!”

“Then we just baaaarely made it.” Sniper’s grinning from ear to ear.

Scout puts the documents back in order and clicks the briefcase shut. “You’re  _ totally _ welcome.”

Sniper laughs hoarsely. “Thanks, Scout. You really did come through for us.” He looks over at the intel like he’s checking it’s still real. “Guess I should apologize for tryin’ to talk you out of the lunch break. That was…” He sighs again. “That’s some serious luck.”

Scout gingerly places the briefcase at the floor, careful not to rest his muddy shoes on it. “‘Course we got lucky. You got your lucky rabbit right here!” He puffs out his chest and crosses his arms triumphantly.

“…I’d kiss the hell outta ya if we weren’t in such a hurry.”

Scout leans carefully over the gear-shift and plants an adoring little peck on Sniper’s scruffy cheek. “That one’s on the house.”

Even with BLU so hot on their heels, a flood of rain bearing down, and the damned teal briefcase burning a hole in the floor of the van, one kiss like that is all Sniper needs to feel safe.


	6. June 21, Morning

Sniper drifts awake the next morning with a lazy smile and pulls Scout closer to him.

 _Then_ he remembers the briefcase.

He hastily squirms his way out of bed with a few mumbling apologies, but he’s still three-fourths asleep, so they sound more like growls than any English words. Scout gets a bony elbow to his thigh and wakes up with a _"Watch it!"_

Sniper squints in what little morning light is trickling in through the van’s curtained windows. He fumbles around for a second, then unlocks a secret compartment near his bed, plus the hidden safe inside _that_ (a merc can never be too sure, after all)…

 _Whew._ Still there, as hideously aquamarine as ever. He heaves a deep sigh, locks everything up again, and crawls back into his bunk.

He _could_ put some actual clothes on and and survey the perimeter of their campsite, but he doesn't bother. They’ve made it through the night just fine without being pulverized by some brass knuckles or skewered by a claymore, so he figures they’re in the clear. He considers for a moment how terribly unfortunate it would've been to be ambushed while he’s passed out in bed with his teammate, clad in only some skimpy Australian-flag-print boxers (a gift from Scout), and possibly drooling onto his pillow a little bit. Yikes, that sounds embarrassing. He silently thanks his lucky stars for sparing him that torture.

All in all, however, this particular turn of events just seems so idle in comparison to how they’d both _expected_ it to play out. Even though it’s definitely an achievement to hunt down such a precious prop without any loss of life or limb, he was still halfway hoping for something a bit more exciting than Scout basically just waltzing down a walkway. The fact that it was in broad daylight is especially bothersome… Hopefully everyone else back at RED will just let that slide without too much fuss.

“Were you checkin' the intel?” Scout's voice is a half-assed murmur as Sniper resumes being the big spoon.

“Mhm.”

“Guess it's still there, huh?”

“Mmmhm.”

Scout can tell Sniper's getting closer to falling back to sleep with every second, but he can’t help being a chatterbox. “We gotta call the base today and tell ’em what’s up.”

“Nah, yeah…” Sniper yawns, unfortunately very loud and right next to Scout's ear. “But not yet.”

They get another thirty minutes or so of semi-sleep, until their dinky little alarm clock goes off and they have to get back on the road.

After making a few very predictable jokes about how their campsite's in a place called "Tillicum Beach," Scout was going to ask if he and Sniper could have themselves a romantic little walk along the shore, but he set one foot outside the van and immediately thought better of it— even though it’s the summer solstice, it’s dark, windy and _bizarrely_ cold.

The mid-morning Oregon coast is the dictionary definition of gloomy, in fact. The ocean here is a steely gray, and the wind that howls up the crumbling cliffs is a double threat: damp _and_ chilly. Dark, well-watered conifers take the brunt of it. Overhead, the sky is as miserably colorless as the sea, and seagulls squawk to each other as they patrol the shore on narrow wings. It would be a real poetic place to get ambushed and murdered, Scout comments at one point, to which Sniper can only nod and try to think about something else.

Once they’re out of the thickest part of the woods and cruising through a meager-looking seaside town, Sniper pulls the van over at the first phone booth that doesn’t feel totally out-in-the-open; it’s got some lovely pine trees flanking it on one side and partway hiding it from the road. Scout rushes ahead to pop some change into it, and he dials the number for their home base so fast that Sniper thinks he’ll snap the wheel off— or his finger.

_Ring, ring._

_Ring, ring._

“Yyyyyyhello?” A burp comes through the receiver just in time for Sniper to bring his ear up to it. Lovely.

Scout pipes up first: “Yo, is this mission control?”

“N- _no,_ this’s Tavish.”

He rolls his eyes and puts on his best trans-Atlantic broadcaster voice. “Mission control, this is Sandman and Snaggletooth. We have _intercepted the delivery_ and will be landing shortly.”

Sniper leans in. “What he means is, we got the briefcase.” Then he puts a hand over the phone and whispers to Scout. “I still think your nickname should be Bugs Bunny.”

Scout just goes _shhh!_

“But it suits ya!”

On the other end of the line, all the way out in New Mexico, Demo is squinting at the phone, holding it loosely in his right hand while he swirls a bottle of Red Shed beer around with his left. He’s pulled the lengthy tangled cord out about ten or so feet away from the wall to sit back down in his folding-chair, a clotheslining accident just waiting to happen. “Good _job,_ lads!” Scout wishes he hadn’t been listening quite so closely, because Demo definitely just shouted at the top of his lungs. Can’t fault him for his enthusiasm, though. “Bloody! Good! _Job!_ Drinks are on me! Llllliterally. I got a _weeeee_ bit carried away and spilled some earlier…”

With a hearty guffaw, Soldier practically vaults himself over the card table they’re sitting at, snatching up the phone and sending an empty beer bottle and a little dish of potato chips to the floor in the process. “Scout! I am very glad you called! Demoman and I are having an _argument_ about the rules to Solitaire!”

Sniper and Scout share a baffled look. “Solitaire?”

“Yes! Demoman is saying that _he_ won and _I_ lost because—”

“Uhhh, wait, isn’t Solitaire a _one-player_ game?”

There’s an awkward pause as Demo scratches his beard and Soldier takes a long, contemplative sip of what’s obviously not his first beer for the day.

Demo chimes in after a bit of thinking. “That _does_ explain a lotta things, now thatshyou mention it… thhhanks, lad.”

Sniper cackles for two full seconds before he reconsiders the politeness of it, and then cuts himself off with an _ahem_ . “Anyone _sober_ you can transfer us to?”

He barely catches a faint voice that sounds like it’s across the room: “Who y’all talkin’ to in there?”

“S-Scout an’ Sniper!” Even though he’s somehow already wasted at about 11am on a Saturday, Demo genuinely sounds chipper to be hearing from them, which is heartwarming. “BLU didn’t beat their arses into a bloody pulp… _yet!_ C’monnnn over here _andsayhi.”_

Soldier shouts much louder into the phone, and much closer to it, than he honestly needs to. “I am handing the phone to Engineer now!”

Engie’s buttery smooth drawl is such a relief after all that hollering and burping. “Well, _howdy,_ you two. Mighty glad to hear y’all pulled the heist off just fine.”

Scout ducks his head nervously. “Remind me to tell you guys the full story when we get back…” he says that as if the feat were any more exciting than grabbing some extra ketchup packets.

“I’m itchin’ to hear it! You doin’ alright there, son? And how’s Slim holdin’ up?”

Sniper adjusts his hat as Scout lets him hold the receiver. “Ah, I’m aces, Truckie. And so’s the _miniature delinquent_ I dragged out here with me.” He can’t help making a little _oof_ sound at the sharp jab in the ribs he gets for that comment.

“Scout, you better be _actin' right_ all the way out there…” Engie puts on the chiding father voice very well for someone whose only children are heavy-caliber tripod-mounted guns and tricked-out vending machines. “Just don’t antagonize Slim while he’s drivin’, for both of y’all’s sakes.” He chuckles. “Or at least for the _intel’s_ sake, if nothin’ else.”

Scout tugs the phone back into his own grasp. “Yeah, yeah, who else is there? Tell ‘em I said hi!” As much as he complains about the base and his teammates, he does get homesick about ‘em pretty easily whenever he’s away.

“Well, ‘sides us three here, that just leaves Spy. He’s broodin’ in the next room or somethin’. Medic and Heavy are busy committin’ crimes against nature, humanity, and _all_ rules of lab safety right about now… somethin’ about _‘subcutaneous implants’_ and a nice big box of new scalpels. And Pyro… well, who knows.” He shakes his head with a tired-parent sort of smile even though it’s a phone call. “Probably gonna drive around in a li’l bit to make sure ol’ Mumbles ain’t startin’ no brush fires.”

“Hmmm. Then, um, tell Spy I said…” Scout thinks about it. Getting sassy right now would leave Spy with a full week to calculate payback, but then again, could he ever turn down an opportunity to mess with his snobbiest teammate? Absolutely not. “Actually, just tell him to get his ass over here so we can talk to him.”

Sniper looks taken aback, but then makes a face like he’s bracing himself for the sheer soul-crushing agony that is putting up with the sound of Spy's voice. Truly, it's a Herculean task, and Sniper feels he really ought to get some recognition for so patiently resisting the urge to fillet Spy with the Bushwacka.

It’s tense and deathly silent until Spy finally sucks it up and speaks. “Scout. _Bushman._ I'm absolutely heartbroken to receive the news that the two of you _didn't_ get turned into charcuterie by BLU.” He pauses for a drag of his half-gone cigarette and puffs its smoke at the receiver. “Hopefully things will go better the next time you both run off in that hideous little death-trap on wheels. A high-speed collision would be interesting.”

Sniper flips the bird at the payphone for emphasis. “Ah, shove it, ya drongo.”

“Hey, hey, Spy.” Scout has a playful kind of troublemaker vibe about him all of a sudden. “Guess what? At this one gift shop up in Idaho, I bought you somethin’.”

Spy finds himself almost afraid to ask. “What did you buy?”

“Heh. A matterbaby.”

“What in God’s name is a _matterbaby?”_

“Nothin’, nothin’! Whassamatta with _you?”_

Scout and Sniper can barely hear the immediate _ka-click_ and dial tone over their howling laughter.


	7. June 21, Evening

The sun is halfway down to the Californian horizon, and the so-called death-trap is nearing the outskirts of the Redwoods.

The hulking trees loom over the road, impossibly oversized and unfathomably ancient. True to their name, their bark is a deep rusty hue, and their ample emerald needles sway proudly in the breeze that slips through the forest, high above the forest floor.

The road clings to the edges of the mountains, and the precipice seems even steeper than the trees surrounding it. Sniper takes it slow here, much to the chagrin of what few drivers share the street with him, but he’s not new to the idea of making enemies in the process of keeping himself alive.

They venture further into redwood territory until they cruise up to the front gates to the Redwood National Park.

Scout gets the biggest grin he’s had all day. “You got us reservations in the Redwoods? Friggin’ _sa-weet!_ Nice choice!” 

“Oh, no. I didn’t make any reservations here. Too short-notice.” Sniper’s expression is unreadable.

“So we’re just here to visit, huh… aww, man, that's a bummer.”

“I didn’t say that. We’re definitely gonna be spendin’ the night here.”

Scout opens his mouth to ask what kind of dumbass code he’s gotta be using with him, but he shuts it again once he sees that they’re already pulling up to the check-in, a rustic little log-cabin that blends in neatly with the palette of the surrounding woods.

Sniper parks the van like he didn't just confuse the hell out of Scout, struts into the dinky little building, and tips his hat at the check-in clerk. “G’day.”

The clerk barely registers their arrival, and asks for Sniper's picture I.D. with an almost palpable disinterest.

Sniper coolly passes his driver's license over. Scout catches a glimpse of it and can tell it’s just an alias, not even a Mr. Mundy, and he guesses the birthday is equally bogus. At least the photo is handsome enough, and the watermarks are all legitimate.

For a moment, it's quiet as the park clerk thumbs through a three-ring binder and peruses a clipboard or two. Then, he starts squinting and flipping through the papers a bit closer to his face.

“Somethin’ wrong there, sir?”

Baffled, the clerk leans out and hands back Sniper’s fake, yet convincing, license. He scratches his head and says there must be some mistake, because he can’t find a matching name in the campground files.

Sniper takes out his wallet, tucks his license back into its slot, and pulls out a crisp hundred-dollar bill— one unmarred by crumples, rips, or any Coral Red #9 lipstick. He hands this to the clerk with the same indifferent air as he’d had with the simple ID.

The clerk’s face goes from perplexed to shocked, and then to something between anxious and pleasantly-surprised. He stuffs the bill into a breast pocket on his beige top, forks over a park map with their campsite circled, and stammers out that he hopes Sniper and his friend will enjoy their stay.

Scout has to fight the urge to look startled, and he acts as natural as he possibly can when he follows Sniper out the door, but the moment he’s safely back in the van, he slaps his knee and guffaws with a snort. “Oh my _gawwwd,_ his face, man, his face! He looked so _freaked-out!”_

Sniper laughs, too, but more haughtily than anything else. “If he’d kept a straight face, I would’ve been the freaked-out-lookin’ one. That was probably worth at _least_ fifteen times what they actually charge here.” He slows the van for a moment to let a six-point buck— which almost seems to raise its head and nod cutely in greeting— trot across the dirt road in front of him. “I don’t mind spendin’ it, though. I like to support conservation efforts like these.”

“Pfff. By waltzing right in when you weren’t s’posta? That’s real supportive of ya.”

“Hey, I paid good money to waltz right in.”

“Yeah, you did, and that’s called a bribe.”

“You’re just jealous that you didn’t think of it first.”

Scout almost retorts, but instead he leans back with his arms folded in a faux-pout. “Okay, maybe I am. Just tell me where we’ll be parkin’.”

“What a coincidence.” Sniper motions with his head towards his right. “Should be comin’ up as we speak.” 

* * *

“D'ya think we should tell ’em?”

Sniper glances up from the campfire. His marshmallow has long since crumbled away into black ashes, but he’s been too zoned-out to notice until now. He blinks hard to get the stinging out of his eyes. “…Tell who about the what now?”

“The rest of the team. Tell ‘em we’re an item.” Scout pops his molten marshmallow into his mouth and talks through it— always the charmer, that one. “Since we seem pretty serious and all.”

Sniper’s shoulders wobble with a held-back laugh, and afterwards he shakes his head. “Heh, heh, heh… Listen, you and I both know they’re all a bunch of no-hopers, but I think they’ve got us all figured out.” He throws another handful of twigs onto the embers. “You spend more nights in my van than you do in your own bunk. That’s _got_ to be obvious enough, even for Pyro, and they’re way out in la-la land more often than not.”

Reluctantly, Scout nods. He knows he’s not always as sneaky as he thinks, but he still hates admitting that. In hindsight, he’s been slinking around the bases like Spy, just with all the subtlety and invis-watches replaced by dorky plushies of Aussie wildlife in nervously sweaty hands.

He still gets embarrassed about the time he bumped into Medic on the way to bring Sniper a box of chocolates adorned with a massive red bow and a glittery card. Medic inquired about the _intended recipient,_ so to speak, and Scout just went all shaky and babbled about how it’s for nobody, really, mind your own business for once, _jeez,_ and finally sprinted out of sight— but not before nearly colliding with a doorframe down the hall.

Of course, it’s not like Sniper has fared much better. He definitely turned some heads when he started eating more of his meals on-site, instead of retreating to his nest with them like a leopard hauling its kill up a tree. He started turning _more_ heads when it became increasingly obvious that he’d begun eating next to Scout whenever possible.

He still gets embarrassed about the time Heavy walked in on them laughing together in the break room at 11 P.M. and sharing a slice of cake from Engie's birthday party the day before. Heavy inquired about whether they were _having a moment,_ so to speak, and Sniper only sputtered something about how he just _really_ likes carrot cake, that’s it, and can’t two friendly teammates enjoy some cake without anyone givin’ ‘em a hard time… albeit with a wobbly voice through a mouthful of buttercream icing. Scout, to his credit, just told Heavy to go to hell.

Scout wordlessly loads another marshmallow onto his skewer.

“…What's troublin’ ya?”

“Nothin’, it’s just… do you _not_ wanna tell ‘em?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, like, ‘cause you think they’re all gonna make fun of ya for datin’ me, so you don’t wanna tell ‘em. What’s Spy call it? Umm, _plausible deniability,_ that sorta thing.”

“Why would I not— Scout, I—”

But, as Sniper knows too well, there's no brakes on the talk train. “Everyone’s always messin’ with me ‘cause I’m an easy target, five-foot-seven, high school dropout, got arms like li’l twigs, can’t even grow a beard, whatever, I _get_ it.” He’s gesticulating with his half-toasted marshmallow to the point where it’s gone cold again. “I get you not wantin’ to be seen as the guy who’s got such low standards that he’s givin’ it to Twinkle-toes on the regular. I just— I dunno.” He puts his free hand up in a conceding gesture. “It’s your thing. I can’t tell you who to sock it to.”

After a moment of thought, Sniper hoists himself up from his side of the fire, then takes his place right next to Scout and throws an arm around him.

Scout leans his weight into the contact and nibbles at his marshmallow patiently. Sniper’s doing the thinkin’ face again; he can tell without even looking over. He decides he ought to hold off on the freakout for a minute to give Sniper a chance at mitigating the problem.

“Alright. Three things.”

“Lay it on me.”

“First. The guys _don’t_ hate ya the way you think they do. Not in the slightest. They’re _guys._ Of course they’re not gonna be honest about whether they’re feelin’ sentimental.”

“Aw, cut the crap. You’re lyin’.”

“Hey, I get a good look at things from where I’m usually at out in the field. Can you keep a secret?”

“Totally. Scout’s honor.” He snickers.

“Earlier this month, I saw Soldier take a bullet for ya. He shook it off because he’s… well, he’s Soldier, and therefore won’t obey any logic, _and_ he double-checked to make sure you didn’t see… but the point remains. I’d bet that the rest of ‘em are the same.”

“Seriously?”

“You bet. You’re like… the sweet li’l baby brother of the team.”

“Boy, if that ain’t startin’ to sound familiar…”

“And I don’t even hang out with ‘em that much, so if _I’ve_ noticed it, then that’s really sayin’ somethin’. On that note, the second thing: even if you _were_ right, and they all hated your guts, I wouldn’t care one bit about tellin’ ‘em we’re an item. I was just keepin’ quiet about it ‘cause I didn’t know if _you_ wanted me to keep quiet.”

“Now, _that,_ I believe. Heh… You really don’t seem like the type of guy to get all worried about appearances.”

“‘Cause you can rest assured, I’m definitely _not_ that type.”

“That’s real nice to know. Honestly.” Scout’s too-big smile is starting to return. “And the third thing?”

“The third thing is, if you want me to… when we get back to Teufort, I’ll carry you into the base myself and yell out that we’re together.”

 _“Oh,_ my gawd, someone would _definitely_ throw somethin’ at us.”

“Demo, probably. He’d throw an empty bottle and tell us to get a room, but he’d be laughin’ his ass off about it, too.”

“Think you could dodge it?”

“Well, that’ll depend on how much of that diner grub you’ve eaten beforehand. If it’s your _usual_ amount… I might have difficulty maneuverin’.”

“That’s not somethin’ that the _number-one Sniper_ would say.”

“Alright, guess I’ll slice that bottle in midair with my kukri, then.”

 _“There_ we go. And then I’ll say somethin’ real witty, like, ‘ _Somebody’s jealous!’_ Except, uh, that wasn’t actually very witty, so I’ll have to figure out somethin’ better.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

They bask in the sentimental awkwardness for a moment longer, and Scout breathes easy knowing how he’s essentially got a bodyguard for a boyfriend.

Then, Sniper gives his partner a subtle little nudge. “Hey.”

“Hm?”

“I know somethin’ that’ll cheer you up.” With that, Sniper stands again and saunters to the van; he steps in through the back door, rummages around for a minute, and then returns to the fire while carrying his slightly-dented, marginally-scuffed, barely-even-beat-up saxophone. It shines in the flickering tangerine glow surrounding the duo, and Scout claps eagerly while Sniper sits comfortably cross-legged beside him.

After a modest amount of fiddling with the keys and warming up, Sniper’s sax flows into the lilting here-and-there melody of _My Funny Valentine._ The notes dance around the scale as Sniper takes a few artistic liberties with his flourishes.

Scout can’t help it; he takes a deep breath and belts out the lyrics. Sure, his low notes are barely a tenor, and the words themselves struggle as they always do under the weight of his New-Englander accent— _‘is yah figyah less den Greek?’_ — but Sniper wouldn’t have it any other way.

 _Stay, little Valentine, stay,_ and all that jazz.


	8. June 22

Sniper's voice echoes from somewhere in the trees nearby. “Hey, c'mere and look at this!”

With a puzzled look, Scout hesitantly sets his half-eaten sandwich back down on its paper plate. “Do I really _want_ to?” It's always a tossup when Sniper calls him over to check out something in nature. Half the time, it’s a pretty freaky sight, like an entire deer carcass or a mushroom leaking cherry-red goo… things only a biology hobbyist could appreciate.

“You won’t know until you try.”

“…Aw, what the hell, I’m comin’.” Scout hops up from the campsite’s picnic table and shuffles through the undergrowth.

He finds Sniper not too terribly far off, kneeling and pointing at something amidst the ferns.

“A big-ass dead branch? That it?”

“Yeah, what a branch, eh? …No, it’s what’s _on_ the branch. Get up close.”

He steps closer, the pine-needles on the forest floor crunching underfoot.

“See, right there.”

“Oh, _yuck!_ What the hell _are_ those things?”

“Banana slugs!” 

“How'd you know that?”

“‘Cause they look like bananas. How else?”

The resemblance really is uncanny: the two fat slugs, each about the length of a dollar bill and as thick around as a bottlecap, are colored a glossy vivid yellow like they’re artificially flavored. They inch along the damp bark of the hefty fallen log, nibbling on its moss and lichen. _“Blech._ Are they supposed to have a big hole in their backs like that?”

“That’s how they breathe.”

As slimy and squirmy as the little guys look, Scout has to fight the urge to bend down and poke ’em. “They just look like someone squeezed out two big tubes of yellow paint.”

“They really do. Just don’t poke ‘em.”

“How’d you know I…?”

“Saw your hands twitch.”

Scout quickly hides his hands in his pockets. The slug nearest to him wiggles its eyestalks like it’s thanking him.

Back at the campsite proper, unbeknownst to the two campers, a bold little Steller’s jay helps itself to the rest of Scout’s breakfast. 

* * *

Scout likes to think he’s a puzzle wrapped in an enigma, shrouded in riddles, sprinkled with intrigue, and generally unpredictable and unknowable to everyone else on the team…

But Sniper can sure tell when the guy’s getting stir-crazy. Scout is bouncing in his seat, clicking his nails against his empty soda can, and drumming his hands on just about any solid surface in arm’s reach.

They’ve hit some serious traffic not even a half-hour after packing up their camp. The mountain roads here occasionally swing out of the woods to skirt the crumbling edge of a cliff. When he’d first laid eyes on them, Scout had the urge to jump out and see if he could slide all the way down to the cold waters of the Pacific coast… but now that the van’s been inching along at a banana slug’s pace, his idea seems like less of a whim and more of a genuine temptation.

The crank for the driver-side window squeals as Sniper absently rolls it down.

Scout groans in not-quite-exaggerated agony. “Y’know, this fancy A.C. your souped-up van has… it don’t actually _do_ anything if the windows are down.”

“Yeah, yeah, but I need a little fresh air.”

“The _fresh air’_ has gotta be, like, over a hundred degrees, though!”

Sniper glances at the thermometer he keeps affixed to the windshield. “Hundred and three, to be exact.” 

Pouting, Scout digs out his sketchbook from the side-pocket of his door. He tears out a page of the thick cardstock, folds it neatly, and ends up with a fan that he wags in front of his face like a grumpy Southern belle. “This sucks on ice. We haven’t even moved an inch for a couple minutes now. You _parked the van,_ for cryin’ out loud.” In the distance, he spies an official-looking sign announcing road repairs in progress. _‘EXPECT DELAYS,’_ it reads almost sarcastically. A few cars ahead, someone with ratty waist-length hair and a multicolor tunic hops out of their vehicle and sets up a lawn chair to catch some rays.

“How about I keep you busy, and give you things to draw?”

Scout taps on his open sketchbook, considering the offer. “…Yeah, sure! Um, gimme a sec to find my pencil here…”

“Can ya draw me a croc first? Always wanted to see one of ‘em in your style.”

“Easy-peasy.” Immediately, Scout sets to work with a few sweeping strokes to outline the serpentine curve of the crocodile’s back.

Sniper adjusts to get a better look at Scout’s handiwork. The way he can hone a few quick lines into such a spot-on likeness is as impressive as it is baffling. One of these days, Sniper is going to work up the nerve to ask Scout for art lessons. He’d love to learn from a master like that, but it’d mean calling attention to how he’s barely able to sketch consistent stick-figures, and that sounds mortifying.

Scout’s crocodile seems just about complete, with a myriad of little bumps and lumps all down the spine, but now he’s reaching under his seat to bring out a tin case of colored pencils. On the snout of the sneering crocodile, halfway between the eyes and the nose, Scout adds one last detail: a pair of amber-tinted shooting glasses. “Hey, babe, is this you?”

“Hmmmm.” Sniper makes a big show of adjusting his glasses and squinting at the drawing. “Hm.”

Scout waggles his eyebrows.

“…It’s like lookin' into a mirror.”

Scout laughs, but then his grin suddenly turns into a bashful look with his eyes averted.

“What’s that look for?”

“Nothin’, I just… nevermind.”

“Come on, I saw how your face changed. What’s your bag?”

Scout puts his hands up to his cheeks, which feel searing hot under his touch, and he knows he must be blushing something terrible. “I just really like how encouragin’ you are. And I hope you think I’m doin’ the same for you, too.”

“Aww, of _course_ you do. I never would’ve tried actually dressin’ nice if you didn’t take me out shoppin’ for better clothes so many times.” He absentmindedly fiddles with his shirt’s pearl snaps. “Turns out I look dashin’ when I wear stuff that’s clean and fitted and not all ripped-up. Who would’ve guessed?”

“Me, I woulda!”

“Yeah, you guessed it out loud every time you judged what I’ve got in my closet.”

“You had, like, two pairs of shoes and that’s _it_ before I started buggin’ you about it. And they both looked godawful.”

“Hey, those are nice boots. Real quality craftsmanship, that is.”

“Yeah, maybe like ten-fifteen years ago when they were brand new! Y’know, I think your hikin’ and huntin’ clothes— like the boots, and the jackets with the million pockets, and all that stuff— they’re probably the only things I can think of that look even _more_ worn-out than your van here.”

“The ol’ girl’s been through a lot.” Sniper pats the dashboard reassuringly, though it’s uncertain just who he’s reassuring with that gesture. “She’s earned the right to look bad.”

“You could at least slap on a few more bumper stickers.”

“What’s wrong with the one I got?”

“Dude. _‘When the van’s rockin’, don’t come knockin’’?_ That might be a _little_ too on-the-nose, even for me. At least when it’s literally the only one on there.”

“Tell ya what. Next tacky gift-shop we visit, you get to pick out another bumper sticker for us.”

“Oh, _sweet,_ I’m gonna pick th—” Scout freezes mid-sentence with his eyes wide open. “Wait. You said _‘us’.”_

“And? It’s just you and me in here.”

“No, I mean, like, whenever you’re talkin’ about the van, it’s always _you_ and _your_ van. Ya just implied it’s _our_ van.”

“...Huh.”

“No take-backs! It’s _our_ van now, baby! I’m _officially_ the vice-president of this van, and now I got the authority to _do stuff_ to it!”

“You’d better not ruin it, ‘cause— actually, nevermind.”

Scout tilts his head with a little _hm?_ sound.

“Was about to say I don’t trust your judgement. But, if I’m bein’ honest with myself, I _do_ trust it. You’ve a good head on your shoulders.”

“That’s… um, I don’t know how to take that, seein’ as your whole job depends on _explodin’_ people’s heads.”

“Then you’re damn clever; how’s that?”

“Way better!”

“You’re clever, _and_ you got a forehead on ya like a coffee table.”

Scout claps his hand over his forehead in self-defense, but then takes it back and smirks. “Only ‘cause my head’s so chock-fulla brains.”

“Sure, sure.”

“I definitely got more brains than you, pally, ‘cause you ain’t noticed that the line’s been movin’ up for like two minutes and countin’.”

Sniper jumps in his seat and mutters a few curses as he jerks the gear-shift into place. Scout really is the biggest distraction on the planet, he thinks. The biggest, dorkiest, buck-toothiest distraction… And he’s lucky to have him.


	9. June 23

Somewhere smack-dab in the middle of California, after several mind-numbing hours of vineyards and amber waves, Sniper gets lucky and finds himself an RV park to camp at for the night. The chill of that coastal Oregon morning is a distant memory by now; it’s not too far from sunset, but the summer heat here is sweltering and suffocatingly motionless.

Thankfully, this place has a dinky little swimming pool, aromatic with chlorine and almost entirely free of dead bugs. At Scout’s suggestion, he and Sniper are loitering shoulders-deep in the water until it’s cool and dark enough to walk back to the van without sweating to death.

Far overhead, the moon is a pristine and lustrous off-white… much like a neutral control-point, an equally alluring view.

Scout squints at it with a mix of amusement and deep thought. “Man, lookin’ at the moon and stuff from all the way down here, I just don’t see how they’re gonna do it.”

“Do what, exactly?”

“Put some guys on it! It’s only a month away! I marked it on my calendar and everythin’. A Sunday, I think? So, y’know, not a workday, but even if it _was,_ no way are they gonna make us _work_ when they’re puttin’ some real-live guys on the friggin’ _moon!”_

“If we _do_ have work that day…” Sniper steals a quick glance at the night sky. “I’m not goin’. I’m settin’ up camp right in front of the TV, and I’m not movin’ ‘til I see a bloody moon-landing. And you’re welcome to join me.”

“Oh, you’re on! I’ll bring snacks, too! And we oughta get the rest of the guys in on it; maybe we won’t get yelled at if it’s not just one or two of us stayin’ home.”

“A strike, eh? I dunno about the rest of ‘em, but I get the feelin’ Engie wouldn’t miss somethin’ like that if his life depended on it.”

“Totally. You gotta hear him when he reads somethin’ about NASA in the mornin’ news and talks about it all through breakfast. Everyone else just spaces out. No pun intended.”

“Can’t say I blame him.”

“You into the space stuff, too?”

“No, but I _do_ own a van, so I can appreciate all the work they put into makin’ and fixin’ all the rockets they send up there.”

Scout giggles. “I’d like to see you hangin’ out with all those science guys, lookin’ at the rockets and screwin’ the new pieces on ‘em.”

“Science guys?” Sniper laughs, too. “Can’t imagine a worse gig.”

“Whaaaat? But they’re famous and stuff!”

“Famous? Name _one_ of those ‘science guys’.”

“Uhhhh. Yuri Gagarin?”

“Cosmonaut. I’m talkin’ about everyone else who _built_ the tin can he went up in.”

“Okay, so they don’t exactly get any credit. But, still! If I was one of ‘em, I’d be pretty damn proud of myself for workin’ on a freakin’ rocket that went to the freakin’ moon.”

“Sorry, but if you worked on a rocket, I wouldn’t go anywhere near it.”

“Yeah? Well, if _you_ worked on a rocket, you’d never _let_ anyone go anywhere near it. You almost cut my arm off when I first touched your van!”

“‘Cause you were throwin’ _rocks_ at it!”

“Only ‘cause _you_ weren’t comin’ out to say hi! And they were _small_ rocks! I had to get your attention somehow.”

“…It definitely worked.”

“Exactly.” Scout lowers himself a little deeper into the water with a sneaky-looking smile. “And, ‘sides, looks like it did you some good to get outta your comfort-zone.”

“Don’t care what you say, I’m _not_ interested in learnin’ how to use one of your shotguns, or your dinky li’l pistols.”

Scout bounces back up. “Aw, c’mon! That again? Lazy ass. You just don’t wanna have to _move_ to get a kill.”

“And? It’s efficient.”

“It’s _borin’_ is what it is.”

Sniper exhales the slightest laugh through his nose, watching the way Scout is not-so-nonchalantly looking everywhere else except right at him.

“So… think I could—”

“Absolutely _not._ You know I don’t want you touchin’ any one of my rifles, much less fire ‘em.”

“Man, you made that rule when we first started hangin’ out. You didn’t even know me then.”

“And I’m not about to change the rule, either. You’re a little too… _butterfingered_ to be trusted with a rifle. You’d snag your fingers on the bolt handle.”

“So? You do the same thing. Your thumbnail’s always bruised.”

“Yeah, and I’m a professional, so there’s no telling how badly _you’d_ be messin’ it up. You’d probably bust out cryin’ the first time the bolt hit ya.”

“I wouldn’t! I don’t cry easy.”

“Agree to disagree.”

“Yeah? Then when was the last time I cried, huh? Like really, actually cried?”

“Just this month, when _Star Trek_ got cancelled, you turned on the waterworks every night for a _week,_ whenever its time slot rolled around, down to the minute.”

“That… that was _different.”_

“Different or not, you’re not gonna be manhandlin’ that rifle.”

“Hmph.”

“Ah, don’t do that pout.”

_“Hmph.”_

“I’m serious, that rifle isn’t for amateurs. None of mine are.”

“Hmmmmph.”

“I’m just worried about your safety.”

Scout makes a sound more like a whining puppy than anything else.

After a careful pause to consider it… Sniper splashes him in the face with the pool-water.

“Blech! Ugh, there better not’ve been a dead bug in that, ‘cause it totally got in my mouth.”

“You can’t just pout your way out of arguments with me. You know I’m a sucker for it. Not nice to take advantage of that.”

“Then can I bargain with ya?”

“Hm?”

“I’ll teach ya how to draw.”

“How did you know…?”

“Oh, I’ve seen the way you look at how I draw Cap’n Kirk. You _wish_ you could sculpt that kinda physique. I’m like da Vinci out here, just throwin’ around Davids left and right.”

“Michelangelo. _David_ was by Michelangelo.”

“So you’re an art nerd, eh? Then you _really_ gotta wanna learn, right?”

“I’m hardly an art nerd. I mean, _David_ is pretty common knowledge…”

“But you still wanna draw.”

“Sure, who doesn’t? I just, y’know, don’t really feel like learnin’. It would cut into my free time.”

“Wow, cut into your free time? Where you just stare at the wall or sit around readin’ Jane Austen? Worst excuse yet, man.”

“Hey, it’s late. I don’t usually fire on all cylinders after about 7 P.M., ‘specially not without coffee. Don’t have the energy for good excuses right now.” With a less-than-flattering grunt, Sniper places his palms squarely on the edge of the pool and hoists himself out of the water. “Just don’t make a big show of it, alright? You can teach me all your tricks; I’ll make it worth your while.”

Scout scrambles up the nearby pool-ladder with a sudden burst of energy. “Man, it’s worth my while just to be teachin’ ya! Okay, so, I think first you probably gotta do some— oh, toss me my towel— some, uh, exercises to get you drawin’ straight lines in one go, and freehandin’ circles, and I’ll show you some good arm motions and stuff, ‘cause you _gotta_ draw with your whole arm, and I—”

“Slow down! You can tell me all this in the van.”

“Sorry, I’m just super excited. Never had anyone ask me to show ‘em how to draw before!”

“Technically, you still haven’t had anyone actually _ask.”_

“Hey, lemme have my moment, alright? I’ll make _you_ into a Michelangelo, too.”

“Hmm. I think I’d rather be da Vinci.”

“How come?”

“Well, Leonardo da Vinci had this cute younger fella always hangin’ around him… Probably for the same reason you’re always hangin’ around me, if you know what I mean. Would be nice to have that kind of assistant.”

“Didn’t he give that guy a bunch of spendin’ money all the time?”

“…Michelangelo it is, then.”


	10. June 24

Vegas was probably a bad idea.

Heading down the Strip, with all its hustle and bustle and flashing rainbow neon, was  _ definitely  _ a bad idea.

Sniper is nursing a headache practically from minute one. Scout gets a passive-aggressive earful about how  _ bright  _ everything is, and how  _ loud  _ all these people are, and how these street performers have  _ no concept  _ of personal space, especially not the bikini babes decked out in beaded fringe and ostrich feathers. And to think Scout was worried that his paisley silk top was going to look obnoxious. He could learn a thing or two from the Strip.

Mercifully, Scout realizes he’s made a terrible mistake by dragging Sniper into epilepsy central, and admits that it’s totally fine to turn around if he wants. They can walk back to the van right away and go crash at their cushy hotel room.

But, with a caveat: Scout wants to step into  _ one  _ casino. Not for the money, of course, and  _ definitely  _ not to show off how loaded he already is and risk getting busted— he just wants to be able to say he went in one.

Sniper, somehow already exhausted, begrudgingly accepts.

It’s chilly inside the casino, a welcome change from the 114° pavement on the way into the city. Scout was so nervous about the van’s tires melting clean off the wheel rims that, for once, he didn’t even volunteer to drive.

The walls and ceiling are painted with massive geometric designs, luring the eye further into the building, and the tile is garish like a trendy suburban kitchen's linoleum. The rows upon rows of slots seem to go on forever, lit up so bright that you almost wouldn’t notice the place’s complete lack of windows. There’s no clocks, either, but thankfully Sniper always keeps his wristwatch on-time with military precision. He looks out over the slots and mumbles something to himself.

“What?”

“I was just thinkin’… I should probably get out more. I was lookin’ at the handles of these pokies here, and first thing I thought of was my reloadin' press.”

“I think you’ve already had  _ plenty _ of other signs that you need to get out more.”

“Maybe. But at least with a press, I get something back every time I pull the handle." He idly pantomimes the action. "Not so much with gamblin’.”

“It’s not about— okay, well, it kinda  _ is  _ all about winnin’.”

“Then they sound pretty unappealin’ to play if they’re built to  _ lose _ ninety-nine percent of the time.”

“Man, y'know what you need?”

“Hm?”

“A _drink._ C’mon, bar's right over there! Let’s get you some frilly li’l overpriced cocktails.”

* * *

Scout gently sets down his third or fourth cocktail glass, staring intently at his coaster instead of looking up at Sniper. It’s printed to look like a black-and-red poker chip with a logo in the center—  _ ‘The Tops Casino’— _ and somehow, it’s the  _ least  _ tacky thing in this whole building. “Can I ask you a super personal and probably really dumb question?”

“Is it appropriate for the middle of a casino?”

“Oh, sure, it’s just real nosy, is all.”

“Alright, then. Ask away.”

Scout reaches over and pokes the bridge of Sniper’s shooting glasses. “Dude. Shades indoors.  _ Why?” _

“First of all, they’re  _ not _ just shades. They’re lenses that help ya see far away in blue light, like daylight.” Sniper corrects the way Scout knocked them askew. “Common misconception.”

“Uh… huh.”

“But I wear ‘em indoors ‘cause… Ah, I dunno how to say it without soundin’ like I’m bent.”

“You kill guys for a livin’. You  _ are  _ bent.”

He nods at that with a defeated little shrug. “Fine, I wear the shades so much ‘cause I get annoyed by light.”

“By _ light? _ So, like, lightbulbs and lamps and stuff? Those bother you?”

“Told you I’d sound bent.”

“No, no, I’m just curious!”

“Well, y’know how when you first wake up in the mornin’, the sunlight gives you a headache if you look at it?” He chuckles. “Especially when you’re hungover?”

“Oh, yeah, that  _ sucks, _ man.”

“I get that with pretty much any light if it’s loud or busy, or if I’m just tired.”

“That’s interestin’… But, hey, you’re  _ always  _ wearin’ em! So what’s with the ‘if’?”

“Lots of places are too loud or busy by my standards.” 

“Wuss.”

“Not all of us had the privilege of bein’  _ desensitized _ by growin’ up with seven siblings.”

“Okay, okay, maybe I’m biased.”

“Wish I had your tolerance for all that. I’m always— well, you’ve seen how I disappear from get-togethers sometimes.”

Pouting, Scout nods. “It’s like I blink and, poof, no more Snipe. Whaddaya do when you run off like that?”

“Mostly I’ll go somewhere quiet, read somethin’… or just zone out and relax.”

“That’s… weird. But not bad-weird. Just, y’know,  _ weird, _ like how hippies or Heavy’s soup recipes are weird.” Scout is vaguely aware, in a sort of third-person view brought on by the drinks, that maybe he’s on the precipice of sounding extremely rude. “Man, you don’t like socializin’, you don’t like bright lights, you freeze up and run off the second anyone looks at ya funny… You sure you’re not some kinda wild animal?”

“Hey, I'm dressed too nice to be a wild animal. Feral, maybe.”

“Feral? The hell’s the difference?”

“Used to be domesticated, but got loose and can’t go back. Pigeons are feral, or at least the city ones, anyway.”

“So you’re sayin’ you’re like a pigeon? …I can see it. Always nestin’ in tall buildings and willin’ to eat literally anythin’.”

“Nah, I’m more like… a dingo. Somethin’ cooler than a pigeon, anyway. And harder to tame.”

“Okay,  _ sure,  _ tough-guy, but you stopped try’na eat with your bare hands at dinner every night once I started buggin’ you about usin’ a freakin’ fork!”

“…And you were the last person I expected to be a stickler about that.”

“It’s ‘cause my Ma was, and that spoon of hers stung like a bitch.” He snickers. “I think she’s gotta be where I got my battin’ arm from.”

“Remind me to be extra-careful with my table manners whenever I see her.”

“Yeah man, no problem.”

Sniper’s pulse only sort-of stops in pure embarrassment when the gravity of his implication catches up with him.

Scout, evidently much more of a lightweight, is a bit slower on the uptake. He gets a dreamy, half-lidded look and seems to be happily conjuring up fantasies of inviting Sniper to dinner at his family’s old place in beautiful downtown Boston… when it hits him, too. “Wait. You really want me to take you home to meet my Ma?”

“Did I say that?”

“Oh, you said it for  _ sure.” _

“Hm. Wasn’t aware.”

“Jeez, don’t gimme a whole song-and-dance. What, you afraid I’m gonna say no?”

“Not… particularly.”

“Well, I’m not, so relax. You can come along and say hey next time I fly over there, for sure.”

“You’re very  _ casual _ about this.”

“What’s there to be not-casual… uh—” He snaps his fingers for a moment. “Serious? Formal! What’s there to be  _ formal _ about?”

“I dunno. I just expected it to be more of a big deal. It gets talked about like some big milestone in movies and TV, meetin’ the parents.”

“It’s overrated. I brought a million chicks to my Ma before. She liked a lot of ‘em and totally wanted a few of ‘em dead. All ended the same way.”

Sniper goes quiet, against his better instincts.

“Aw. Awww, hey, I didn’t mean it like  _ that. _ You  _ know  _ you’re special and better than everyone else.”

“…I am.”

“So I know— we  _ both _ know she’ll just  _ love _ ya! Probably gonna pinch your cheeks and say you dress nice and ask about your job, all that Ma stuff.”

“I’m assuming she knows all the details of our particular line of work.”

“Yup. She thinks it’s cool. I think she’s a li’l jealous.”

“What about your brothers? Seven of ‘em, was it?” Sniper whistles a single exasperated note.

“Oh, trust me, talkin’ about your gig here is gonna score  _ major  _ points with ‘em. They just, heh, get a little overprotective.”

“So, I shouldn’t tease you for anythin’.”

“Nope.”

“Or  _ speak poorly  _ of ya.”

“Nuh-uh. Best behavior. Gotta treat me good.”

“Y’know I’m not scared of them, right? Can’t say I’m really scared of anyone.”

“You sayin’ you don’t  _ wanna  _ treat me good?”

“No, I’m just sayin’ if they  _ misinterpret  _ somethin’, I’m not gonna let ‘em hassle me for it.”

“You _ ain’t  _ gettin’ your knife in the house, pal, and like half of ‘em are older than you are. ‘Sides, my Ma’s favorite thing is when everybody gets along under her roof. And that means  _ everybody.” _

“Got it. No squabblin’.”

“Not one bit.”

“Can I—”

“You can get absolutely  _ wasted _ if you want.”

“That’s a relief." Sniper slouches, releasing the tension he wasn't aware he was keeping, and takes a sip of his drink. "Whew.”

“You ever see that one episode of  _ The Dick Van Dyke Show? _ The one where Laura meets Rob’s parents and she just gets  _ blitzed  _ ‘cause she’s so nervous? That. You can  _ totally _ do exactly that if you want. Full permission, man.”

Sniper slides a little paper napkin across the bar counter to Scout. “Can I get that in writing?”


	11. June 25

Their second round of camping in Flagstaff feels bittersweet, to say the least. The dry, chilly feeling of the nighttime desert air is almost exactly like that of Teufort, and it'll be nice to get home tomorrow, but at the same time, it means the trip is just about over.

Scout shuffles his way towards the van, and the heavy woven blanket around his shoulders is inches away from just dragging along the ground. “Can we stop parking so close to the entrances?”

“This is our last stop, though.” Sitting cross-legged in front of his campfire, Sniper is roasting a hotdog on a marshmallow skewer. It looks precariously close to both the fire and the edge of the skewer itself.

“I mean, like, in the future. Bein’ close to the entrance just means we’re nowhere near the actual facilities.” His hair is damp and spiked in all different directions— he must’ve just toweled it off a minute ago. “I just showered and I’m already all dusty again from the walk here.”

“Well, that’s on you. Should’ve put on somethin’ more protective instead of walkin’ back in your shower shoes.”

“I’m gonna walk these shower shoes right into the van. Finally got clean so I don’t wanna immediately smell like some nasty ol’ campfire.”

“Want me to bring in somethin’ for you to eat in a li’l bit?”

“I’m always down for a s’more.”

“I meant _real_ food.”

“One measly stinkin’ _on-fire_ hotdog ain’t real food.”

“It’s not on f— _oh, goddammit!”_

* * *

It’s nice to have the privacy of Sniper’s trusty campervan over the course of trips like this, but even though it’s definitely better than some drafty tent on a cold, uneven tarp, it’s still terribly cramped sometimes. Sniper has a peculiar habit of making _any_ space he occupies feel weirdly smaller than it did before; something to do with his awkwardly stretched-out proportions. Once, Engineer compared Sniper and his van to a stickbug in a mason jar. Scout never brought it up to the guy, but he’s certainly giggled at the thought more than once. Sniper reall _y is_ all elbows.

Especially when he and Scout are both sat down at the little two-chair booth by the window. When Scout first started coming in here for beer and cards and whatnot, it was strictly platonic, and something about the way he couldn’t get up out of his seat without kicking Sniper in the shins always got him flustered. The novelty’s worn off, but it’s still nice to have this semi-physical intimacy in an otherwise mundane interaction; Scout is doodling while Sniper reads his well-worn paperback of _A Farewell to Arms._

And it’s nice in other ways, too. They’re parked close enough to a patch of trees that they can hear a few brave creatures skittering and sniffing around for any dropped marshmallows.

But eventually the silence gets the better of Scout, and he pipes up without pausing his messy sketch of a comic. “‘Kay. So. If you didn’t have this job— didn’t have any kinda job where you could, y’know, do seriously illegal stuff—”

“God forbid.”

 _“If_ that happened… What else would you wanna do?”

“Ah. Hm.”

“Don’t tell me you ain’t never thought about it.”

“Never really had to.”

“Well, just gimme one idea.”

“You’d laugh.”

“No way!”

“…Park ranger.”

“Park ranger?!”

“Yeah. One of the really big national parks, lotta space and wild areas. Wouldn’t have to deal with many people, but I bet I’d get a great view from wherever I’d be stationed.”

“I can’t imagine you doin’ anythin’ with customer service. Any sort of _interactin’_ type gig.”

“Awright, maybe I did have… another idea.”

“M’kay, shoot.”

As he leans in, Sniper gets this funny little twinkle in his eye, like he’s about to say either some good news or a good joke. “I’d want a farm.”

“You better not get all _Mice and Men_ on me. Don’t tell me about the rabbits, Snipe.”

“No, really, a farm! You wouldn’t want that? A nice big one, no neighbors around for miles…”

“Aw, with a li’l red barn and a silo.”

“A chicken coop, too. Couple dozen hens, one big angry rooster.”

“Maybe some cows. Those white ones with the big black splotches on ‘em. And big cowbells around their necks that go _clunk-clunk-clunk.”_

“A goat, for the lawn.”

“We give all our leftovers to this one big fat pig. And we name him Heavy.”

“What do you think: a little-bitty farmhouse, or a big spacious one?”

“Hmmmm. Good question…”

“I was thinkin’ a little one, and it’s all just painted wood on the outside. Maybe the inside’s got some soft colors, green and brown and whatnot.”

“Ha, but no red?”

“Listen, I’ve had enough of the color red to last me the rest of my life. Literally every scrap of clothin’ I got is either a neutral color, or _some_ kind of red.”

“Ugh. Same. I think we got brainwashed. Just a li’l bit, but still.”

“You get compulsive about it, too?”

“Oh, definitely. Even when I’m off the clock and just shoppin’ for _me,_ not for any kinda lousy incognito away-mission or whatever, it’s like my brain just won’t let me buy stuff outside the, uh, uniform palette.”

“Lemme guess. Don’t own a single thing in blue.”

“You kiddin’? That’s a death wish! But… I also don’t got any yellow, green, purple… Man, I can’t _wait_ to buy other colors again.”

“Someday.”

_“Someday.”_

“You wanna come with me?”

“Hm? Come where?”

“The little farm. When I get one. Not if, _when.”_

“Cute how you think you have a choice. I’m movin’ in whether you want me or not.”

Sniper laughs and stares rather intently at his paperback with a wry smile that lasts for a good few seconds longer than it ought to.

“What?”

“I just imagined you wearin’ down a circle in the grass from running laps around the farmhouse.”

“I… hate that I can totally see myself doin’ that.”

“I’d put some sand down if you want, or somethin’ else to level it. We could make it a proper runnin’ track.”

“Oh my gawd, I love you.”

Crickets chirping, a watch ticking, a faint rustle of sparse leaves, an ever-fading murmur from the neighboring campsites… the sounds all blur together into a bubble surrounding the duo at the table.

They’re almost frozen in this little moment, meeting each other’s unsteady gazes, almost trying to send sweet-nothings to each other telepathically because they sure as hell don’t have the guts to say them out loud.

Then, just like that, the moment is gone again, and Sniper leans back into his practiced calmness. Despite the loose and easy look, each of his gestures have been borrowed over the years from people-watching. If he had his way, he’d never have to actually emote— especially not through something as obtuse and fickle as body language— to literally anyone, ever.

Well, anyone except Scout. It comes easy around him, this openness and expressiveness. He feels a little bit less like a caged animal, less jumpy and _way_ less bitey, if Scout’s around.

But sometimes, like now, Scout says something that completely catches him off guard, like a wooden bat cracked hard across his head while he’s been looking down his scope, and he's left reeling from the impact. His body is rehearsed, but his face isn’t, and as he looks at Scout again, his mutter is barely audible. “That’s the first time you’ve actually said it.”


	12. June 26

The first thing that happens is that Medic laughs his _Arsch_ off.

Sniper had held up his end of the bargain; he kicked open the door to the main room of the Teufort base with Scout in his arms, bridal-style, to find four of their teammates in the middle of a game of Texas hold-‘em— letting Medic be the dealer was an odd and slightly masochistic choice, but whatever. He then proclaimed quite matter-of-factly (so as to avoid any and all confusion) that he and Scout are, in fact, a couple.

…And immediately, Medic howls with his most mad-scientist laughter, slumps onto the card table, pounds his fist hard against it enough to send some poker chips flying, and then finally lets himself join said chips on the linoleum.

The _second_ thing that happens— before the duo even has time to react to the doctor’s giggle fit— is that Heavy, Engineer, and Spy all groan, grumble, and gripe in perfect unison. They set down their cards and stare varying degrees of daggers at Medic, who’s still flat on his back and cackling beside his chair, kicking his legs and clutching his ribs.

Scout pats Sniper’s arm to silently ask to be set down, and Sniper obliges. His sneakers barely hit the floor before he rushes over to the card table and slaps his palms onto its marginally sticky surface. A few poker chips rattle with the impact, less so than when Medic struck it. “What the _hell_ is so friggin’ _funny,_ wise guy?”

Engineer and Spy just make noncommittal brow-raises and head-tilts as they look down at their drinks— cheap beer and vintage wine, respectively.

Oddly enough, Heavy's the one who speaks up. “We made bet, two months ago, how long would little men wait to say they are couple.” As he talks, he begins re-stacking his scattered chips with great care; he’s got more than either of his competitors. “I said Smissmas. Engineer said Thanksgiving. Spy said little men would never say, would hide as long as possible. Doctor said…” He gives Medic a semi-delicate nudge with his boot.

“Ah, yes, yes.” Medic finally claws his way back into his chair, and shortly thereafter, his posture is as impeccable as ever. “I had wagered that you two would admit it sooner than anyone else expected.” Dusting a few crumbs from his waistcoat, he smirks. _“Far_ sooner. I believe my exact words were that it would be ‘ _the very moment they return from their next private mission.’_ And, as you can see… These fools are none too pleased to find that my prediction proved _frighteningly_ accurate.”

Scout gives a puzzled look. “So, then, what’d you guys bet, anyhow? It’s not like money is a big deal here either way.”

Smiling wickedly, Medic winks and makes a _shhh_ gesture. “It would be a breach of patient confidentiality to disclose that information.”

“I don’t know how you did it, Doc.” Engineer raises his bottle of Red Shed in somewhat begrudging respect. “You played the rest of us like gotdamn fiddles. Ya shoulda been a psychiatrist, if you ask me.”

Spy would have his head in his hands, but he’s too busy keeping his nose in the air. “Perhaps my own wager was merely _wishful thinking._ What could possibly be worse than our most obnoxious teammate allying with our most foul-smelling? I had hoped you two would keep it to yourselves.”

“Now, now; nobody likes losin’ bets, but there ain’t no use in pitchin’ a fit about it.”

“Oh, believe me, the moment I first connected the dots— which was earlier than _anyone else,_ mind you— I certainly _tried_ to be amused. Unfortunately, it nearly made me lose the filet mignon I’d had beforehand.” Avoiding all eye-contact, he stacks up his cards neatly and lays them flat on the table, then downs the rest of his wine. “Gentlemen, I’ll be in my study.” With that, he takes his leave, his faint wisp of cigarette smoke almost looking like angry steam boiling out of his head.

With all the stealth one might expect, Heavy reaches over to peruse Spy’s abandoned cards. _“Ha!_ Tiny baby cry because cards bad. Look, baby hand for baby man!” He fans them out for Engineer and Medic, who both look quite tickled.

Sniper wanders to the nearest fridge— one densely decorated with souvenir postcards and a few charred spots of explosive damage— and just scowls at its contents for a moment before shutting the door again. “Who else is here? If they’re also gonna laugh at me, then I’d like to get it over with.”

Heavy points to an area of the floor only a few yards away. “Pyro is there.”

Sniper almost jumps; he didn’t even notice them.

Surrounded by papers of varying colors and condition, Pyro is lying tummy-down on the linoleum with a box of crayons, carefully sketching out scenes of fat kittens prancing through meadows full of rainbows and giant lollipops. They look up at Sniper and giddily wave hi, the lenses of their mask glinting a shiny white under the harsh overhead lights.

Sniper waves back awkwardly.

Pyro points excitedly to their newest drawing— a round pink unicorn splashing around in a sparkling pond under a candied-apple tree.

Sniper just glances sideways at Engie, who leans over in his chair and gives a double thumbs-up. “My, that’s real purdy, Smokey!”

Pyro giggles, thrilled, then pulls out a pastel-pink lighter out from under their chest, clicks it, and sets the illustration alight. The flames leap to their full height in an instant, and the paper dissolves into glowing ash.

Sniper elects to take that as a sign that he and Scout officially have Pyro’s blessing; all other interpretations are horrifying at best. He nonchalantly bends down to sneak a peek under the card table. Sure enough, Engie has a few sizable buckets of water sitting at his feet, just in case Pyro’s arts-and-crafts get out of hand. Immediately, he feels safer, and relaxes again. “And what about Demo and Soldier?”

“Yeah, were they in on the bet, too?” Scout’s smirking to hide his bashfulness, but the slight wavering of his voice gives it away.

Correctly guessing that their once-riveting Texas hold-‘em is a bust at this point, Heavy is now building a house of cards. “Bah, they did not care for bet. They only make promise to throw big party when bet is won, no matter who is winner. And also buy drinks! Obviously.” He places a card funny, and his two-tiered house collapses, only to be immediately started again. “Demoman says drinks are your choice. Choose wisely. He will buy a _lot.”_

This finally elicits a small laugh from Sniper. “Well, tell ‘em to save that for later. I’ve got a headache, a backache, and several _other_ aches from sittin’ around and drivin’ for two weeks straight… Don’t wanna add a hangover on top of all that just yet.”

 _“You_ tell them, tiny man. Should be here soon—”

_Slam!_

Soldier kicks in the front door, even though it was unlocked, nearly sending it clear off its hinges. “What is all this that I have heard about _fraternizing_ between _fellow soldiers?!”_

Medic shoots Heavy a pointed look. Heavy shrugs.

Engineer stammers and quickly stands up from his seat. “Ah, pardon me, fellas, I uh…” He lifts his walkie-talkie from a rear belt-loop. “I musta been pressin’ the button down with my keister this whole time.”

Medic clicks his tongue like a disapproving mother. “That is the _third time_ this month!”

“I know, Doc, I know, but I use any other belt-loop for it, and it just bumps up against the rest of the things on this here tool belt! Makes an awful racket.”

Soldier marches over to the table where Heavy, Medic, and Engineer are gathered. “The means by which I have acquired this information is irrelevant! It is what I plan to _do_ with the information that matters! And to these two men, I would like to say…” He stomps right up to Sniper until he's close enough to chest-bump him. “Congratulations!”

Sniper has about the look of a startled blue-tongue skink. He’s more than a little overwhelmed by Soldier’s energy, to say the least, but it’s not exactly unwelcome. It takes him a good few seconds to realize Soldier is offering a handshake, and then he sighs with a bit of a smile and returns it.

Soldier puts both hands into it and practically dislocates Sniper's arm. “I would especially like to congratulate _you,_ son, for achieving the greatest honor in the world: being _courted_ by a red-blooded American man. And here I thought you had a kangaroo wife back home in Austria! Ha! You are now _officially_ as American as pumpkin pie!”

“Well, thanks for givin’ us your blessin’, mate...” Sniper has to strain to pry his hand from Soldier’s iron grip. “But, shouldn’t that be _apple_ pie?” 

“Do you see what I mean? The effects are already taking effect! Oh, and Scout!” He tracks bright orange sand across the linoleum as he gets in Scout’s face next and places a firm hand upon his shoulder. “Son, you are basically the American ambassador to Austria now—”

Scout blinks. “Australia.”

“That is what I said, Austria! Anyway, you must be on your best behavior. You cannot show weakness. And you _will_ take him to only the _finest_ restaurants in this great nation of ours, and buy him the _finest_ double cheeseburgers that the American dollar can buy!”

That gets a giggle out of Scout. “Whaddaya mean, that my _mission_ or somethin’?”

“Yes! And America is counting on you! Do _not_ disappoint her!”

“Roger that. Won’t let ya down!” Scout bites his lip to stifle his laugh while he does a salute; Soldier’s always gotten on his case for having such poor form with it, but he does a good enough job this time that Soldier salutes back without calling him a limp-wristed lady. “…Oh, hey, uh, where’s Demo at?”

“He is bringing us drinks from the cellar!”

“Like, wine cellar? We _have_ one of those? Man, no one tells me anythin’! I’m gonna go see it!”

Sniper visibly perks up at the mention of the drinks, and he glances sideways at Heavy. “I’ve definitely changed my mind in the past two minutes… I need a beer.”

“Ohoho, not from cellar! I saw little raccoon family in it last time.”

Meanwhile, Scout flings open the front door, and in his haste he nearly leaps right into the clinking crate of liquor in Demo’s arms.

“Easy there, lad, no need for shovin’! I brought enough for everyone!” With the sway in Demo’s walk as he ferries the crate to the card table, it’s a wonder that none of the bottles are so much as nicked. Evidently, he has his priorities.

Sniper plucks out the best beer from the mish-mash of bottles after instantly recognizing the color of its cap.

Scout trots over, but then loiters at an awkward distance with his hands in his pockets. “Sooooo… you heard the news, then, pally?”

“Ach! It’s not even news at this point, not for a _long_ time! But, I heard it.”

“And you’re, ah, cool with it?”

“Aye, that I am. You know, the ancient Spartans, they… their armies used to…” Demo quickly covers his mouth for a burp. “Well, laddie, I’m not gonna tell you _what_ they used to do, because we’re at _work._ So nevermind that! I just have one wee question for you…”

“Somethin’ personal?”

 _“Verrry.”_ He unevenly steps closer, and his voice drops to a whisper that sounds pleading and almost choked-up. “This won’t change our Monday night routine of drinkin’ and watchin’ _Laugh-In_ , will it, boyo?”

“Oh, hell _no,_ it won’t! Man, I’ll even get Snipe to join! Might have to give him a shot of somethin’ strong beforehand so he doesn’t get all quiet and run off, but I bet we can work it out.”

“Whooooohoo! Bloody brilliant! _Cheers!”_ He holds up his scrumpy, but once he notices Scout hasn’t grabbed a drink yet, he offers a high-five with his other hand. Scout meets it with a loud enough _smack_ that Engineer winces.

Heavy lifts a bottle of his own that seems doll-sized in his grip. “Yes, cheers! Toast to the two little men, and their soft little baby hearts!”

Medic raises his drink and puts a hand on his chest in a _be-still-my-heart_ gesture. “And a toast to their frontal lobes, as well! _Ja,_ young love is so _beautiful_ that, in hindsight, it makes me thankful that I was forbidden from performing experimental brain surgery on any of you!”

Soldier hoists his own drink so quickly that he spills a good amount of it. “And a toast to pretending that I am not completely terrified of Medic!”

A roar of hurrahs, hoots, hollers, and even a gas-mask-muffled giggle fit all fill the room loud enough for Spy to hear it down the hall, frown, roll his eyes, and dial up the volume on his antique phonograph.

Engineer takes a satisfied swig of his Red Shed. “If y’all lovebirds don’t mind… We could have ourselves a little ol’ barbecue tomorrow to celebrate. I’ve been tryin’ to think of an excuse to smoke some brisket for a couple weeks now, and seein’ as it’s now _officially_ summertime, I reckon it’s the perfect occasion.”

Scout nods hard enough to jingle his dogtags. “Engie, you don’t even _need_ an excuse for makin’ that kickass brisket a’ yours, but I’d be totally proud to _be_ that excuse!”

Pyro frantically waves a hand in the air and blurts out an eager question.

Engineer grins. “I’ll give you some _special_ cuts to grill, Smokey, don’t you worry.”

Scout fidgets in place for a second. “Just don’t let Pyro near _my_ plate.”

“‘Course! I wanna throw you two a real nice party, no doubt about it.” He tilts his head and turns to Sniper. “What about you, Slim? Been awful quiet for a hot minute now.”

“Ah, I’m just thinkin’.”

“About…?”

“About goin’ shoppin’ for this cookout…” He pulls out his keys, twirling the keyring around his finger. “And if my copilot wants to help me out.” 

Scout doesn’t hug Sniper so much as he just flings himself at him and latches on tighter than bark on a tree.

Demo sends an empty bottle of scrumpy whizzing barely over their heads. _“Get a room!”_


	13. June 27 (Epilogue)

Cookouts like these always bring out the best moods in the mercs. Scout and Sniper feel downright flattered that this one was kicked off in their honor specifically.

Engineer is grilling various cuts of meat, keeping a close eye on the smoker that’s had brisket cooking in it for about twelve hours at this point. To keep Pyro at bay, he tosses them less desirable scraps— ones that are fatty, tough, or just bought from the bargain-bin for exactly this purpose— which they can then immolate to their heart’s content. Pyro certainly gets a kick out of wearing a chef’s hat and a pink frilly apron, the pockets of which are stuffed with complimentary motel matchbooks.

Medic is still wearing his bloodstained Hawaiian shirt from earlier this morning, when Engie let him clean the deer he’d just shot a couple days prior. Sure, it would’ve been easier to just buy the venison itself, but Engie likes hunting, and Medic _loves_ dissecting. He says that since his Hawaiian shirts already have such hideous red patterns on them to begin with, you can barely even notice the blood. At the moment, he’s minding his own business and reading an obscure English-translated Russian novel that Heavy lent him… or, more accurately, chitchatting with Heavy while an open book rests unattended in his lap.

Sandvich in hand, Heavy looks downright friendly. His enthusiastic, sweeping hand-gestures suggest that he’s probably telling Medic about how he and his sisters would hunt bears for dinner together back when he was still on the other side of the Iron Curtain.

“Your sisters sound delightful! I can only hope they’re doing well. I trust they still write to you?”

“Yes, they sent letter two weeks ago, and said they are lonely, but still good. I sent them money. I have told you before, probably— I joined RED only to give sisters money. But…” Here he lifts his aviator sunglasses for dramatic effect. “Meeting Doctor is very nice perk as well.”

Medic just says something in very flustered German while laughing and fanning his face.

A decent distance away from the food, thankfully, Soldier is on the ground and wrestling with a raccoon over some freshly-grilled corn on the cob. Despite its spectacularly chubby build, the little guy is actually putting up a decent fight. Soldier looks about as focused and dead-serious as he does in a proper battle, struggling visibly, but the raccoon only sees this as a playful exercise and is enjoying Soldier’s frustration.

Demo is watching that scene play out, and inebriated as he is already, he still knows that Soldier _really_ shouldn’t eat that corn cob… if he ever does manage to wrest it from the raccoon’s tiny paws in the first place. He ponders things in arm’s reach that he could throw at them to make the squabble more interesting. Can raccoons wield steak knives? What about a steak knife in one paw, and a pickle-jar lid as a tiny shield on the other? Now we’re getting somewhere, he thinks to himself.

And, to everyone’s surprise, Spy turns up to the function as well. To specifically Scout’s surprise, he has a few oddly proud words for the couple, in his own discreet and backhanded way. Scout gets ever-so-subtly pulled aside while halfway through a burger, from which a fat slice of tomato oozes out while Spy is talking.

“I was quick to judge you two earlier.”

Scout knows Spy is doing his _I want to say sorry but I refuse to drop the hoity-toity attitude_ schtick, and even though he appreciates the sentiment… 

“I judged _correctly,_ but I was quick to judge nonetheless.” 

…He’s not about to act like he’s all choked up, either.

“That being said, I can see that you truly have been trying your best to not completely sabotage your already tenuous professional relationships within this company. For that, I commend you.”

Ah, that was actually very sweet of him. Scout nods and goes in for another bite of his burger without comment.

“I don’t expect you to be able to _uphold_ this vague semblance of maturity, of course.”

There it is. Scout rolls his eyes.

“Yet there is a part of me that would like to hold out hope for you and your bizarre choice of partner.”

Oh?

“That is, I would if I didn’t know any better.”

Goddammit.

“If you ever want advice, I will give you a special rate. Normally it is free of charge, but for you I will only ask $15 per hour— twice on weekends or after-hours. Anything to keep a fellow teammate from forever tarnishing the mere _concept_ of romance for the rest of us.”

Before Spy can continue to flatter himself even further, Scout just gives another very curt nod as he gestures with the last quarter or so of his burger. “Thanks, I guess. Look, pally, I know you probably don’t even _wanna_ be having this chat with me, and I don’t either, so I’m gonna be up-front with ya and say you can quit try’na be polite. I know you think I’m way, _way_ the hell below you, and that Sniper’s even way below _that,_ but I also think _you’re_ a complete moron, so… Guess we’re done here, seein’ as this ain’t goin’ anywhere anytime soon.”

“I suppose that concludes this conversation, then. Again, very professional of you, and I do not mean that sarcastically.”

“I seriously don’t give a rat’s ass.”

“Right. Good day, Scout.”

Politely raising her hand, Miss Pauling flags Sniper down from halfway across the event.

He trots over to her oddly obediently. “Glad to see you could make it, Miss Pauling.”

“Oh, I really only have about—” she consults her wristwatch— “four more minutes before I need to jet. I just couldn’t pass up this food. And I wanted to personally thank you for getting that intel. I knew it was a long shot, but you two really came through for me, and it turned out to have even more information than I’d predicted. So… thanks. And nice work.”

“All part of the job, Miss Pauling. Have you talked to Scout yet?”

“Yes, actually, and it turned out to not be as painful and drawn-out as I thought he’d make it. He shook my hand, and it was pretty awkward, but then he apologized for being so, you know, _persistent_ with me before.”

“Well, that sounds like the best possible way to resolve all that.”

“Meh, I’d say it’s the second-best. The _first-best_ would be if he’d arranged for me to get a week’s paid vacation and a crate of— um, I’m sorry, are you wearing earplugs?”

“Hm? Oh, heh, just somethin’ Medic suggested for when there’s just too much, y’know, _people noise_ goin’ around for me to focus.”

“How unsettling it is to hear Medic give sensible medical advice for once. Do they actually work?”

“So far. Demo was slurrin’ _‘Dream a Little Dream Of Me’_ into a broken bottle earlier, and I barely even noticed him.” He grins, proud of himself.

A few dozen feet away, Scout catches his eye and waves, excitedly bouncing in place.

Miss Pauling gives a tiny inhale through her teeth. “And speaking of annoying noises…”

“Aw, ya get used to him.”

“I think you’re more than a little biased at this point.”

He waves back to Scout with a mildly flirtatious look on his face. “How could I not be?”

“I don’t mean to sound _rude,_ Sniper, but… What do you see in that guy, anyway?”

Sniper gives a wistful little lopsided smile. “He makes me laugh.”


End file.
